


Like The Water Finds The Sea

by Kemmasandi



Series: Whispers Of A Well-Lit Way [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Mechpreg, Miscarriage, OC Supporting Characters, Pregnancy complications, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Spark Bond, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex, pre-canon AU, robot politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes six orns for everything to go to the Pit in a handbasket. After an encounter with a roving band of Decepticons, Ratchet faces the toughest years of his life - but Optimus is determined that he will not face them alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gokuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gokuma/gifts).



> **Title:** Like The Water Finds The Sea  
>  **Rating:** M / NC-17  
>  **Universe:** TF:Prime [AU]  
>  **Characters:** Optimus Prime, Ratchet, First Aid, Greenlight, Ironhide, Chromia, Jazz, Ultra Magnus, Prowl  
>  **Pairings:** Optimus Prime/Ratchet, mentions of Chromia/Ironhide  
>  **Content Advisory:** Noncon, offscreen gang rape, mechpreg, rape recovery, graphic birth [nonhuman], dubious alien biology
> 
> >> _Written for the[this kinkmeme prompt](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13185024#t13185024):_  
>  "A bonded mech gets raped and sparked up as a result of the assault. His bondmate is horrified by the fact that his partner got hurt like that and tries to comfort him as much as he can. He's not really happy about the newspark but understands that his mate is in even worse condition and that getting rid of - or keeping the newspark is his decision to make. And when his bondmate decides he's gonna keep the child, the mech offers his support. He loves his bondmate and he wouldn't leave him no matter what.
> 
> As the time goes, it turns out that the pregnancy is insanely difficult for the carrier's body. He's barely able to function, is berthridden for the most of time, can't cope with the pain. His bondmate gets more and more scared about him, his emotions are on the edge all the time (except for the time when he's with his partner: he tries to be reassuring and loving and calm with him, to not scare him or cause him even more pain). He can't really focus on his job, keeps thinking about the other mech.
> 
> Eventually everything ends (mostly) okay, the newspark is born, his carrier gets well ~~and the rapist gets drowned in the lake of lava~~ "
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **> > Cybertronian Units of Time:**  
>  _Vorn_ – Orbital cycle; Cybertronian year. [roughly 83 Terran years]  
>  _Lunar Cycle_ – Cybertronian month. Length varies by about 5 orns. 26 lunar cycles in a vorn. [Just under 4 years]  
>  _Quartex_ – Cybertronian fortnight. 4 quartexes in a lunar cycle. [Roughly 10 months]  
>  _Chord_ – Cybertronian week. 3 chords in a quartex. [3-4 months]  
>  _Orn_ – Rotational cycle; Cybertronian day. 14 orns in a chord. [Roughly a fortnight]  
>  _Joor_ – Cybertronian hour. 52 joors in an orn, give or take. [roughly 6 and a half Terran hours.]

* * *

_but you know, like the water finds the sea_  
 _your soul will always flow right back to me_  
 _like a river_

* * *

 

Though he was a thousand leagues away at the Autobot stronghold in Altihex, Optimus knew the moment the mission went bad.

His spark fluttered, the still unfamiliar sensation of a settling bond reaching across the world to him. Unease seeped through, a stark clinging weight settling into his struts. It was faint—had he not been between meetings he likely would not have noticed it.

He set his stylus down beside the datapad he’d been working on, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the tips of his fingers against his aching forehelm. Late afternoon sun streamed down out of a wide unbroken sky, the occasional supply shuttle throwing long, fast-moving shadows across the cityscape. If he ignored the ragged broken spires of the towers brought down in the Seekers’ last raid he could almost pretend that Cybertron was at peace today.

From its place on the windowsill, the small purple manybranch crystal Ratchet had given him as a bonding gift refracted spurs of violet light throughout his office. Optimus gave it a pensive look, concentrating on the suddenly wary spin of his own spark. He’d not had long to get used to the sensation of emotions other than his own amongst the morass of thoughts that made his spark spin at the best of times. His emotional protocols had misinterpreted the foreign data before. Perhaps it was nothing to be worried about.

Wind-borne dust, glittering in the sunlight, rustled against the windowpane. His datapad hummed quietly. It could have been idyllic, if not for the disquiet now streaming through the bond.

Optimus frowned down at the desk, only half seeing it. His waking mind reached out, seeking the warmth of his bondmate.

Ratchet would be on his way back from Polyhex – Darkmount, rather, to give the Decepticons’ northern power base its full designation – by now. That meant several thousand leagues of distance, stretching the link between them down to almost –but not quite – nothing. Optimus knew what nothing felt like, though, and this was not it. He traced the unease through his emotional centres and down into the base coding which read his spark. Flickers of his own bewilderment led him astray once or twice; he backtracked through stray files and datapackets until he found the point where the trail picked up, and tried again.

Ratchet had been assigned – in truth, had volunteered himself and browbeaten any of his subordinates in the medical ward who tried to suggest that perhaps someone of lesser rank might be a better choice into submission – to the black ops team charged with the retrieval of one of their deep cover agents. Given the Decepticons exceedingly low opinion of such Autobots, expert medical assistance had been one of the points on Jazz’ wishlist for the retrieval team, and as Ratchet had successfully argued, the Autobots had no-one more expert than himself.

They’d had their first argument as a bonded couple over it, too. Optimus drew in a deep breath and vented it, the echoes of Ratchet’s strident voice ringing in his audials. He’d known it was a lost cause the moment he’d seen Ratchet’s name on the first draft of Jazz’ team roster to pass his desk; once Ratchet set his mind to something, the stubbornness of the Unmaker himself was required to overrule him.

Oh, but Optimus had tried! Unfortunately he’d had no argument better than his own misgivings to put forth. Ratchet had been moving in political circles since before Orion Pax had crawled out of the Well, and he’d bent Optimus back over his own side of the debate and tied him to it. Logic and measured reasoning failed to move him; emotive arguments only earned a smile of grim determination and a searing kiss. Ratchet knew him, inside and out.

The bond pulsed, dark clouds skittering across the link. Ratchet was afraid.

 _Of what?_ Optimus debated with himself for a moment – should he make contact, and risk possibly breaking Ratchet’s concentration? He didn’t know what was happening, and there were no words in the bond, Ratchet couldn’t tell him, but if nothing else he could offer his support for Ratchet to lean on.

His spark won, reaching through the bond for his mate.

Hesitant reciprocation bled through at his first contact from behind Ratchet’s mental shields. Optimus felt his expression grow tight. The mental touch was sharp with nervous energy, the occasion whipcrackle of electricity as Ratchet reacted to something in the outside world. Optimus’ own senses fired, the ghost of instinct flashing across the leagues between them. His fingers twitched, closing around the trigger of an imaginary gun.

Ratchet was not a dedicated fighter; had no ranged weapons, energy-based nor solid-projectile, integrated into his systems. He’d had to borrow a high-powered handheld pistol from Ironhide for this mission.

Gently, Optimus pulsed steady warmth across the distance between them, just enough to say _I am here._

Then, movement. Ratchet’s presence swayed behind his shields, bending before the wind. Optimus felt the faint echo of pain trace through his neural net.

It felt like a fight, but the cloying fear and the anger that simmered beneath the surface made Optimus’ spark constrict in a way he’d never felt before. The bond came alive, Ratchet dropping his mental shields and sweeping through in their wake, his presence suddenly autumn-bright and unmistakeable. Thoughts and impulses streamed between them in a split-second flash, Ratchet’s rusty tang sharp on Optimus’ senses. In the real world he tasted oxidized iron, pyrites glimmering in the space behind his optics.

He waited, a breath too long, Ratchet’s spark thrumming and alive against his own. His hydraulics tensed, lifting him to a half-crouch over his desk. Battle protocols yowled against his conscious mind. He shut down the urge to bring his weapons to bear. Ratchet’s crystal glimmered on his desk, darkening as the sun slid down the horizon. Swaying to the left as a sudden surge of instinct hijacked his motor controls, Optimus shut down his optics, and prayed into the darkness.

Helplessness was not an emotion he felt often, but here, with the sickness of sudden terror building up between them, he knew with a horrible clarity that there was nothing he could do to defend his mate.

They waited. He felt Ratchet’s temper boil over, self-preservation protocols the only thing keeping it in check. Anger burned away the fear, but died away in turn, and once the embers had cooled, icy dread crept in. Optimus wrapped his mind around Ratchet’s core, pushing every bit of warmth and love and _safety/home/mate_ that he had into the cocoon. Ratchet leaned into him like a starving mech, but his spark still shivered and watched for the coming pain.

Dark little thought trees in his subprocessors wondered what was happening. Ratchet’s presence flickered, alternating between clinging to him and pulling away. Barriers came flashing down between them more than once, warped and wracked with guilt. Ratchet was trying to protect him, he realised, to spare him from whatever was going on.

Optimus opened his optics, and sunset turned the world a shade of bloodied red. An alarm beeped in the bottom right corner of his HUD; a meeting with Ironhide and Prowl about troop rotations.

He made an executive decision and sent both officers his apologies for backing out.

Optimus shook his helm, and his mind brushed aside the barriers like curtains. Ratchet came edging back to him, his spark cut through with rivers of shame. Hands of quartz and starfire touched Optimus, a ghostly presence wrapping around his waist. Optimus bent to wrap his arms around Ratchet in turn, but a flaw in the precious stones brought him up short. It split open in front of him, Ratchet shattering around it in a glittering flood of crystal.

Pain hit him like the death of a star.

_—hands, all over him, tipping his helm up, pinning his wrists to the twisted scrap metal above his head, slipping between his thighs and pushing apart with inexorable strength. White, white paint, white optics amongst the red glow of the Decepticons around him, and laughter too, loud and cutting. He squirms, trying in vain to get loose, but pain explodes in his wrists as the biggest of his captors leans on them, crushing his hands into each other. It hurts so much he thinks he might scream if it goes on too long, but he holds out, pleased beyond all logic by the disappointed sigh that pushes itself out of his captor’s lips._

_His victory is shortlived, however. Agony eclipses it as the glowing blade of a thermoelectric sword punctures his shoulder, pushing between the outer armor plates, cleaving the joint, and buries itself in the ground beneath him. His neural net lights up in a supernova; an insect pinned to a collector’s book. His screams fill the air, echoes ringing between the burnt-out buildings._

_He barely feels it as those hands move between his legs, stroking and caressing in a mockery of tenderness until his overwrought neural net can do nothing but respond. He arches, sobbing as the movement tears the blade through a set of bundled sensor cables deep in his chassis. It’s survivable, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it, each pulse of damage reports setting his nerve centers on fire, lightning branching through every line in his neural net—_

—a herculean push, and Optimus crashed back into his own body. The world spun around him for a terrifying moment and settled with him on his back on the floor, staring up at the solar light strips in the ceiling. His limbs trembled, the ghost of a sharp ache cutting through the neural lines in his shoulder. He raised a shaking hand to touch the plating there, reassuring himself that no damage had been done. His fingers tapped lightly against his collar strut – and clarity turned his mind to ice.

On the other side of the bond, Ratchet burned alive.

Optimus threw himself back into the link, wrapping himself around the inferno, choking the flames. His audials buzzed, a strange not-sound that, if he let himself concentrate on it, tore at his spark and stole the breath from his vents, the moisture from his mouth and the strength from his limbs. It was a scream, straight from the deepest parts of Ratchet’s mind. Pain and horror and midnight rage coalesced into one sound; sharp-edged with denial crashed into Optimus, rending him to the core. He folded Ratchet into his arms and tried to shield him from the pain, kissing the garnet crown of his mate’s helm as ichor dripped from their wounds and mingled in rivers as it flowed into the space beneath their pedes. Ratchet pressed his face into Optimus’ chest and cried out, wordless agony both physical and emotional, and they both felt the invading push of a spike far too large slipping unprepared into his body.

Optimus held him close, rocked him in his embrace as it tore Ratchet apart from the inside out. Less physical damage than spiritual, but just as agonising, and cracks traced white flaws through Ratchet’s quartzite skin as he watched, his lips moving in quiet, hopeless pleas. Optimus read Primus’ name on his mate’s lips and something in his spark broke. He lifted Ratchet higher, holding him up to the glow of the sun and pressing his forehelm to Ratchet’s spark, closing his mind’s eye against the flow of ichor trickling from between his legs.

Ratchet’s arms tightened around his neck, and the pain lessened, leagues opening up between it and them. A quick, haunted kiss pressed to Optimus’ helm, and he looked up to meet Ratchet’s gaze. Dark trails spilled from his crystalline optics, and Optimus didn’t have to taste the ashy residue on Ratchet’s lips to know it was blood. Ratchet rested their forehelms together, chevron to crest. Optic to optic, abyssal blue met shattered orange. His lips parted, gave a little, gasping cry.

Optimus felt the hot flood of transfluid through the shudders in his field, the claspers release. Trigger nodes dragged trails of lightning through Ratchet’s internals as the monster’s spike withdrew.

He didn’t dare hope it was over. And as Ratchet shook against him, spark eddying with waves of emotion too powerful to measure, he felt the touch of another set of hands against his mate and knew that reprieve would not be theirs for a long time yet.

* * *

The next time he opened his optics, the room was dark. A faint blue glimmer reflected off the corners of his desk, the shape of a mech sitting by his shoulder. Dimmed optics gazed down at him, red plating shifting as the soft click of a comunit activating told Optimus what was going on.

“He’s awake, ‘Aid,” Ironhide murmured into the comunit, resting a hand on Optimus’ shoulder when he tried to push himself upright. His bodyguard wrapped a blunt-edged EM field around Optimus as one might do for a frightened newspark, and when he next spoke it was for Optimus’ benefit rather than First Aid’s. “No, don’t get up yet; First Aid an’ ‘Raj’re on the way. Stay down, Optimus.”

Optimus had no choice but to obey. As soon as he’d moved, his body made it abundantly clear that he was going nowhere soon. His lines ached, his hydraulics trembling with charge. His limbs shook with the slightest movement. Down in the undercity of Kaon, close to a lifetime ago, he’d once seen a foundry beating the impurities out of an ingot of low-grade iron with a hammer twenty times as big as he was. Perhaps this was how that iron might have felt.

He onlined his vocaliser, and the resultant burst of static made them both wince. Yet the goal was in the forefront of his mind, every subprocessor howling for it.

“Ratchet,” he croaked, lifting his optics with great effort to Ironhide’s. “Something’s happened to him.”

Something, yes. He knew the name for it, but the word choked him, hurt to even think it.

Old and canny warrior though he was, Ironhide’s expressions made his thoughts as clear as day. “Yeah,” he replied after a moment, leaning down and looping one of Optimus’ arms around his shoulders. “Ah jus’ got the memo – damn’ Prowl kept me outta the loop ‘til a coupla minutes ago.”

A twitch went through Optimus’ neural net, the foreign touch triggering still-active self-preservation protocols. Optimus ruthlessly suppressed the immediate reaction, but enough of the impulse escaped his mental control that he gave a full-framed shudder in Ironhide’s arms.

The old warrior gave him a look, worried lines etched into his faceplates. “Let’s get yeh up and out of the dark, Optimus. Can yeh stand, d’yeh reckon?”

Optimus leaned back against the side of his desk and buried his helm in his hands, dragging in a deep breath and exventing harshly. His processor was still straining to comprehend the enormity of what he’d felt through Ratchet. He hurt, right down to the core of his spark. He’d had a rare cube of mid-grade that afternoon, and it roiled in his tanks, threatening to make a sudden reappearance. There was a dent in the plating high on his left temple, courtesy of, he suspected, the unforgiving edge of his desk. The beginnings of a migraine needled the overwrought circuits in his core.

On the other side of the bond, Ratchet’s presence was still and inert. Offline, perhaps in stasis lock, but not dead or in danger of it. Even in unconsciousness, his spark still echoed with pain.

Optimus reset his vocaliser – once, twice, three times. He bared his dente in what was more a helpless grimace than anything that could be called a smile. “I… do not know,” he managed. “I will try.”

“Right. On the count of three.” Ironhide crouched, slid his supporting arm down around Optimus’ waist and steadied him with the other. On ‘three’ they rose, an ungainly beast with too many legs. Optimus wobbled on his pedes; Ironhide came close to outmassing him, but Optimus stood head and shoulders taller and had a much higher center of gravity to match. He flung out his free hand and grasped the edge of his desk, easing himself back to brace against it. His world whirled dizzily in front of him.

Six orns. Optimus tilted his helm upwards, focusing on the ceiling as grief attacked him with tooth and claw. They’d bonded barely six orns ago, and already the world was making a mockery of their vows. His throat cabling worked, trying to swallow down the bitter tang that coated his mouth.

Memories, already distorted, drifted across his mind’s eye. The strange buzzing resonated in his audials again. He fought to control himself, dragging his field beneath his armor to stop it from betraying his turmoil, but the damage was already done. He was two size classes larger than Ironhide and could wrestle him to the ground within seconds, but the touch of his bodyguard’s servo against his shoulder made him jerk and shy away.

“Optimus?” Ironhide’s voice was deliberately slow and calm, echoing in the cool amber touch of his EM field. “Here, look at me for a moment.”

Optimus cycled another heavy breath through his vents, and dropped his gaze. Ironhide’s optics glowed sluggish blue under their protective filters, optical ridges drawn low in concern. He’d picked Optimus up off the floor after a Matrix-induced vision several times in the past, but Ironhide had been around the block more times than Optimus could count; he’d survived this long by getting very, very good at knowing when something was wrong.

“I saw it,” Optimus said, drawing strength from the solid press of Ironhide’s field around him. “What happened to him. Felt it. He’s alive. Offline, but alive.”

Ironhide, Primus bless him, did not question the source of his knowledge. “Location,” he prompted. “Surroundings, details. How many attackers?”

“An old church, bombed into ruin.” Optimus recounted what little he could remember. Ironhide’s internal comms clicked quietly as he relayed the information to whoever was coordinating the rescue effort.

Unannounced, the door slid open. First Aid slipped into the room, a diagnostic kit in his hands.

Optimus felt his cabling draw tight, and forced himself to relax. First Aid was a known quantity, Ratchet’s former apprentice. They’d met on several occasions, and Optimus had decided he rather liked the little sylph’s quiet confidence. Far better him than Pharma, who had temporarily taken over Ratchet’s duties as CMO.

“Hey, ‘Aid,” Ironhide said, sounding far more casual than he looked. Optimus merely nodded, not sure he could bring himself to talk without giving away how much he wanted to purge.

First Aid directed him to sit down, this time back in his chair rather than on the floor. Optimus did so without complaint, gratefully taking his weight off shaky legs. The vivid tingle of a full-strength scan washed over his frame.

Ironhide took up his customary position standing at Optimus’ right shoulder, a silent bulwark.

The frenzied spin of Optimus’ spark calmed a little. He cycled a deep vent through his internal fans, and surrendered himself to First Aid’s tender mercies.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_praying won’t change anything_  
 _what will change the present is_  
 _how ready you are to fight_

* * *

 

The Altihexian command room was harshly lit and half-empty, late-night shadows creeping in from the corners. For security reasons it occupied the very center of the base. There were no windows and few ventilation shafts, and as the doors flicked shut behind Ironhide Optimus caught a glimpse of steel blast reinforcing.

Of the twenty-three places at the conference table, only five were filled. Blaster, currently on loan from the Tagan Heights frontlines, balanced his chair back on four legs and murmured a tired greeting; Cuirasse, Ratchet’s second-in-command in the medbays, gave a respectful, if distracted, nod. Beside her, First Aid hummed through his dente as he scrolled through a tablet, optics shadowed under drawn browplates. The lean frame of Altihex’ resident SpecOps director threatened to merge into the shadows at the back of the room despite his expensive Towers finish. Mirage’s yellow optics followed Optimus as he made his way to the head of the table and sat, feeling as though he’d been awake for a million years.

Across the table, Prowl looked up from his mountain of data the moment Optimus sat. His field was taut and frayed, as though he’d been working ten shifts straight. With no Jazz around to haul him bodily out of his office, he probably had.

Holoscreens above the table flickered into life with a wave of the CTO’s servo. Ordinarily there would be six of them, one for each member of the command corps missing. Tonight, there were only three. Elita-One, one of Optimus’ oldest remaining friends, smiled down at him from the middle of the group. Her callsign and time zone – Kalis, Western 34.4 – blinked from the bottom of her screen, her assistant’s bright red and goldenrod helm hovering behind her shoulders. Accompanying her were two mecha Optimus only knew by their personnel records: Red Alert, newly-promoted General Security Chief, and Kup, whose full title was near-unpronounceable and reflected a military career of nearly a million vorn.

Along with Ratchet, the missing mecha were Jazz – who was leading the rescue effort – and Ultra Magnus, who was busy running the war effort in the Western Hemisphere. Optimus counted both of them close friends. Today of all days, he felt their absence keenly.

He vented as unobtrusively as he could, put his servos palms-down on the tabletop and focused on the physical reality of the dead metal beneath his fingertips. Nine pairs of optics settled upon him.

“I believe Prowl has sent each one of you a breakdown of the current situation, but for clarity’s sake I will repeat it here,” he began. “Earlier today the Darkmount retrieval squad was attacked en route from Polyhex. Details are awaiting confirmation, but it appears that the squad was scattered by a force possibly superior in number, whereupon Ratchet was separated from the main group and subjugated by the enemy.”

He paused for a millisecond, wondering how to phrase the rest. Not long – but long enough for Elita to take note, her optics narrowing. “He was tortured for close to a joor, and is currently offline or in stasis. The status of the other squad members is currently unknown.”

Ratchet’s rank was both a blessing and a curse. As CMO, he was officially considered part of the Autobot command corps. This meant that while he seldom took part in the day-to-day maneuvering and management of the army, for Decepticons – any Decepticons – to target him could never be taken as anything but an active, calculated tactical strike against the Autobots as a whole. Had his security clearance been lower it might have simply been exceedingly bad luck – a symptom of the emotionally-charged violence between the factions. Yet to capture a member of the command corps would give the Decepticons a huge advantage, no matter how they played it. Ratchet, despite his disinterest in military command, held a huge amount of sensitive information within his processors. And, as Jazz kept reminding everyone, the Decepticons had all the best hackers.

The silver lining in this blackest of thunderclouds was that it gave Optimus all the resources the Torus states branches of the Autobot forces had to throw at Ratchet’s recovery. Unlike many other unfortunate mecha in this war, he would not have to fight his own faction to be allowed to go after his mate.

“Recent reports state that the corpse of the squad captain, one Cutlass, has been found alongside several Decepticon frames, all either dead or approaching it.” Prowl cut in smoothly. A databurst pinged politely in Optimus’ inbox. He opened it, scrolling through the document as the tactician continued. “Trackers have reached the squad’s last known location and are following several trails.”

An undertone of static bled through one of the communicators. Red Alert was muttering softly in his screen. He made no move to speak aloud, however. Prowl pinged the holoprojector, and the crackling quieted.

“What are our sources?” Kup prompted through the cygar hanging from the corner of his mouth. “First response?”

“We lost radio contact with the squad prior to their arrival in Polyhexi territory,” Blaster put in. The Altihexi base was the closest communications hub to Darkmount; Blaster, a gifted broadcast tech, had been transferred to monitor Decepticon communications rather than keep track of their own operatives. He was a young mech, plainly out of his comfort zone in such high-level discussions. His field slunk closer to his plating as he continued. “We weren’t going to be able to get away with it within Darkmount’s zone. The plan was to check in with ground control when they crossed the border into Uraya afterwards. This would’ve been about half a joor ago. When they didn’t check in, we sent SpecOps a warning and went to the extended time. ”

Mirage shifted, crossing one leg over the other and leaning his helm back against the wall. “Special Operations then readied a second team, primarily composed of trackers and combat specialists, to render assistance if needed while the extended rendezvous window elapsed, after which point they were deployed. Jazz is commanding this team, hence my presence here.”

“Mirage and I have direct, heavily encrypted comm lines open to Jazz,” Prowl said, and another databurst made the rounds. “The majority of our information is being relayed through him; however,” and here he glanced at Optimus for the barest moment, “Optimus has given us some information, the accuracy of which has yet to be proven.”

Five curious glances came Optimus’ way. “What d’ya mean, ‘yet to be proven?’” Kup asked.

“It is not overly detailed, and I do not know whether the method of transmission may have affected its veracity,” Optimus explained, his spark lead-weighted. He’d given Prowl everything he could, but the split-second glimpse he’d seen through Ratchet’s optics had been blurry with pain. He hadn’t even known it was possible to share a bondmate’s senses.

“Oh?” Elita said, leaning closer to the screen. “Has the Matrix begun concerning itself with present matters?”

Cuirasse consulted her tablet, then gave him a sharp look. “According to the scans ‘Aid took, there’s none of the electrical activity here that’s been present after your other visions. Admittedly Ratchet’s the only one with the full record, but I’ve still got a decent sample here.”

Optimus shook his helm, forestalling the queries he could feel coming. “It was not the Matrix,” he said, quickly and firmly. He could not afford to be tentative with this. “Six orns ago, Ratchet and I bonded. I felt a small measure of the assault through it.”

There was a wordless outcry as several of the others tried to speak up at once. Optimus raised his hands, palms outward, pressed intent through his field and brought it down on Prowl and Cuirasse when it looked like they might argue. “I am not interested in listening to criticism at this juncture; you may critique our decision as much as you like _when Ratchet has been brought back to safety._ ”

“Ah take it that’s how yeh know he’s alive,” Ironhide said. He was frowning, but not, if Optimus knew his bodyguard at all, in disapproval.

Optimus nodded shortly. “I don’t believe he’s immediately in danger of fading, either. His recovery must be our immediate priority.”

“Doubly so, now.” Elita tapped her claws against her desk – the tinny sound echoed through the link, sharp, staccato. “Optimus, my friend, I question your wisdom in bonding but I cannot deny that in this situation it may be to our advantage. I pray to the Star of Chaos that it continues to be so.”

“Ratchet’s security clearance is second-tier,” Red Alert rasped. “He should have the appropriate firewalls, but if he is taken to Darkmount they will not hold forever.”

“That is our worst-case scenario,” Prowl agreed, his voice clipped. “Kimia reports that Darkmount is in lockdown. Ships have not been allowed to take off nor land since the dawn shift this morning, when our jailbreak was discovered. This would indicate that Ratchet has not yet been taken prisoner.”

Blaster frowned. “Why wouldn’t they, though? If I was a ‘Con and I had a high-ranking Autobot at my mercy, the obvious thing to do would be to take them in to my superiors.”

Optimus held his field as still as he could muster, counting slowly to six. Blaster met his optics for a moment, then winced, field furling in apology. It wasn’t his fault – Optimus sent him an apologetic ping, though the wound in his spark was still raw and bleeding.

“It may be that they don’t know what he looks like, though.” Elita shifted to the side, allowing her assistant to speak up. Hot Rod squeezed into the holoscreen’s frame, the flared tip of his spoiler sticking up behind Elita’s shoulder.

Hot Rod was young, an orphan of the war in Kalis. Elita had adopted him shortly after her own mate’s death in the fall of the Towers in Protihex. Roddy had been a sparkling, barely a couple of orns old at the time. Optimus had once asked why. He’d received as a reply a video-capture of a tiny red-and-gold mechlet crawling through the muddied streets of the bombed-out city, chuckling at the motes of golden dust that danced through the sunlit atmosphere and died as they settled on the damp silt drifts in front of him.

“He broke my spark, Optimus,” Elita had said, cradling the dusty, gurgling child in her arms. “Anyone who can laugh in such a terrible place deserves the chance to survive.”

In the here and now, Hot Rod continued. “I mean, I hear about people like Soundwave and Starscream plenty, but I only just found out what Starscream looks like in person last night. If these guys are just scouts, say, they’ll know the _name_ Ratchet, but who knows whether they’ll recognise the face that goes with it?”

“Plausible, but unlikely,” Prowl judged, optics narrowing in thought. “It would be the best-case scenario.”

“It may explain certain things,” Optimus mused. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on his hands, staring down at the tabletop without really seeing it. His tanks roiled as he tried to recall the few small details he’d gathered in the midst of Ratchet’s pain. “They stayed in the same place for rather a long time.”

“Undoubtedly somewhere they felt safe. There are three major battlefields close to where the team was scattered.” Prowl grabbed for another datapad and jabbed the stylus into the screen so hard Optimus half-expected it to crack. “Caulter Plateaux and Mollyn Stay – both were Decepticon victories. There is an outpost near Caulter Plateaux, so likely not there; they would have taken him to the outpost if they’d had a half a brain module between them. Mollyn Stay township was bombed… and there was a small church within the city limits.”

Prowl’s commlink interrupted him. His optics dimmed, stared into the middle distance. Optimus recognised the look of a mech paying every iota of his attention.

Mirage detached himself from the shadows. “It seems Prowl was right,” he said. “They’ve just found Ratchet inside the transept. Jazz refuses to give me details, but he is as angry as I’ve ever heard him.” He slipped out the door and vanished from sight.

“Prepare yourself, Optimus,” Prowl put in, clicking off his tablet. “It’s bad.”

* * *

They brought Ratchet in unconscious, keeping him in stasis lock until his wounds could be treated. Optimus might have protested, but the moment he laid optics on his bondmate’s ravaged frame he understood.

The Altihex base’s medical wing had once been a teaching facility attached to the Altihex Academy of Medical Engineering. There was an observation bay set into the wall of the main operating theatre, where tutors had once watched their students operate on dummy frames. Optimus waited there, hands pressed to the glass, vents coming quick and shallow in anxiety.

Under the surgeons’ skilled hands, Ratchet slowly became recognisable again.

There was so very much to repair. The nurses under First Aid’s command had cleaned Ratchet up as best they could prior to the operation: his mouth no longer glistened with silver, the streaks of dried fluid that had painted his thighs and abdomen vanishing under solvent and cloth. The patina of dust and debris that had turned the white of his paintjob dirty brown washed away under a steady spray of low-pH cleanser.

Ratchet’s entire left shoulder was a ruin of sparking wires and twisted, blackened metal. The edges of the surrounding plating drooped and bubbled, droplets of melted metal visible amongst the dead protomass and char inside the wound. Thermoelectric blades always left ugly scars. The joint had been completely obliterated, Ratchet’s clavicular and upper biceptic struts liquified under the heat of the blade. It was a dreadful injury. As Optimus watched, the surgeons stripped Ratchet’s shoulder back almost as far as his processor core, removing both arm and shoulder mechanisms. The detached arm was set down on a separate operating surface, where another surgeon carefully sealed the open lines and deactivated all electrical systems, before placing the limb into a suspension bath. The container was then sealed, and placed into cold storage.

They’d largely left his valve alone. Whether that would be for better or for worse, Optimus could not begin to guess. Someone had found a cloth to spread across his pelvic span; they’d soaked that in a nanite solution and left it there while the surgeons worked on his shoulder. Small mercies, Optimus was grateful for them.

The rest of the damage was comparatively superficial. Optimus followed the medics intently as plating was welded and coaxed back into shape, stripped gears replaced and cabling patched. By the time the buzz of activity began to die down, Ratchet’s frame was much diminished. A temporary patch covered the stump of his shoulder, and what remained of his plating was striped with welds and green smears of nanite paint.

There was a knock on the door of the observation booth. Optimus came very close to jumping out of his own plating.

“Enter,” he called, venting in. He counted to six as the mech – Cuirasse – closed the door behind herself, then let it go. It didn’t seem to help.

“Are you holding up all right?” she asked, in the silence left by the echoing click of the lock. Her field was held tight against her plating; it prickled to the touch, shot through with a bitter note something like helpless anger to the taste. Her optics blazed yellow out of a taut mask of neutrality.

 _No._ “Yes, I am,” Optimus said, the lie – for once – slipping smoothly onto his glossa. “Are you?”

Cuirasse’s optics refocused, her mask slipping. “Yeah,” she said, shifting a look down and to the side. “Just… tired. Tired, and Unicron-spittin’ angry. I’m not here for me, though.”

“I had thought so.” Optimus replied. There was a chair in the corner of the room – not big enough to be comfortable for a mech his size, but perhaps enough to support a weary medic. He stepped back, caught it by the armrests and brought it forward, wordless offering. Caught off-guard for the second time in as many minutes, Cuirasse gaped at it. Her control shattered, reformed into a mirthless grin.

“Sure I can? I don’t want to be rude.” She waved a still-damp servo at him, the gesture taking in his entirety. _It’s not done to sit down in the presence of a Prime._

“You will not be rude,” Optimus persisted. To the Pit with formality. “I owe you and everyone else who has assisted my immense gratitude.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” Cuirasse argued, even as her knees folded beneath her. She didn’t so much sit down as collapse into the padded chair, the bearings in her tyres squeaking as her heels rubbed against the floor. “I’d have done the same for anyone. We all would have. The ‘Cons chewed him up and put him through the Smelter, and the Pillars spat him back out.”

Optimus shook his helm, glancing back out into the theater. Ratchet lay on the berth, supine, his optics shuttered and his one remaining arm crossed over his chest. There was a strangely peaceful expression on his face, utterly at odds with the injuries marring his frame.

 _I was afraid of that,_ he very nearly said aloud.

“You're down as Ratchet's next of kin in his documentation. This is the post-operation report.” Cuirasse’s scowl faded into an exhausted frown. “The damage looks a lot worse than it is, fortunately. Worst is his shoulder; the joint was completely obliterated and enough of the surrounding mechanisms went with it that it's more efficient to replace the entire shoulder. We're going to have to machine a new joint custom to his specifications, however, which will take longer than I'd like. The heat killed off large chunks of his protomass in that area, which also had to be excised. He will have to undergo several more surgeries at some point; we will fortunately be able to reattach his arm once the joint is fitted, but between then and now his protomass has to recover enough to firstly allow the new joint to integrate into his frame, and then to reintegrate the arm itself. Assuming all goes as planned, it might be as much as a full chord before he’s fully functional again.”

Optimus tasted half-processed energon in the back of his mouth. He swallowed it down, trying to keep the motion as inconspicuous as possible. “I see. The other damage will not pose as significant a setback?”

Cuirasse looked away, bitterness flooding her field. “There’s… Prime, you have to understand that with this sort of attack, there’s as many ways that people react as there are mecha on this planet. We can look at the physical damage and make an educated guess, but that’s as good as you’re going to get. According to Jazz they had him pinned to the ground with a scrap-fragging thermoelectric sword through his shoulder. He was being electrocuted, burned and gang-raped at the same damn time. That sort of thing doesn’t just leave a mark on your consciousness, it carves it in ten leagues deep with a rusty bandsaw.”

There was a rail running along beneath the window behind him. Optimus knelt, groping for it as the weight in his spark drove him to the floor. He felt his digits creak, their cabling threatening to snap with the pressure of his own grip. The pain broke through the howling in his mind, grounded him before it consumed him. _I should have been there. I swore to protect him, to guard him, to keep him safe. I should have been there._

Cuirasse was watching him, her optics tired and knowing. Optimus picked up the frayed pieces of his composure, but they slipped through his mental fingers like water.

He gave up. Looked at his hands, curled into fists and pressed hard against his thighs. “What can I do to help him?”

“You can talk to him, for starters. He’ll be awake soon. It might help if you were there.”

All the Decepticons in the world could not have stopped him. “I will.”

There was a silence. Cuirasse broke it with an awkward cough of her vents. “Sorry if I stepped over the mark a bit there, Prime. It’s just something you’ve got to understand.”

Optimus let out a vent he’d forgotten he’d been holding. “No, the advice is appreciated. I… will likely have need of it in the very near future.”

“Definitely,” the medic murmured. “Anyway, as I said, the shoulder’s the worst. We’ve got some anomalies in his spark readings that we’re about to get looked at in greater depth, but his output rate is stable and his pulse is fine and strong. His plating was severely damaged in places, which is to be expected with violent assault. The worst have been removed as repair would be exceedingly fiddly otherwise. He’s sustained minor motor system damage to most joints; and the hydraulics in his back, hips and knees are severely overstressed and may require replacement rather than repair. He’s low on energon and derivatives, so we’ve hooked him up to a direct drip-feed which will remain in place overnight. Longer, depending on how well he can take it orally tomorrow.”

“How long do you expect him to remain in medbay?” Ratchet’s own quarters weren’t far from here. Optimus hoped that would count in his favour. He’d never liked to be kept in his own medbay.

“Perhaps three or four shifts, at the least. Long enough to integrate his initial repairs. Longer, likely.” Cuirasse drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair, her optics focusing on a spot on the wall past Optimus’ shoulder. “His internal damage is not worrying, by itself. The valve lining is severely abraded and has prolapsed somewhat, but we’ve pinned it back in place and applied nanite gel. Self-repair should have it fixed within a couple of orns. The sensory network came close to burning out – again, self-repair will do more for that than we could. Physically, he doesn’t need a replacement. Psychologically, it could help, but I’ll leave that to Ratchet and Rung.”

Optimus shifted his weight off his heels, which were beginning to ache. “Who is Rung? I am unfamiliar with the name.”

“Part of the local psych team. I’ve worked with him before and I’ll vouch for his competency ‘til the sun turns blue. Regulations require thirty joors counselling after trauma – torture, captivity for example – so I’m recommending they assign Ratchet to him.”

She opened her mouth, as if to continue, but the chirp of a comm interrupted her. Her optics dimmed, the sharp yellow glare turning distant. An update, Optimus assumed. He glanced out the window again. The nurses were cleaning the theater, and Ratchet was gone.

Cuirasse spoke again, catching Optimus by surprise. “You and Ratchet are bonded – you were sexually active, I assume?”

Optimus blinked at the sudden change of topic. Cuirasse grimaced, her field drawing back in wordless submission, but did not retract the question.

“Yes?” he said eventually, the question markers creeping through his mental censorship. “We were, yes.”

The grimace deepened. “We have the preliminary results from Ratchet’s spark scan back. We’re taking him for a deeper systems scan now. I’ve been asked to bring you to the tech ward.”

Worry gripped Optimus’ processor with sharp-clawed fists. “Is there a problem with his spark?”

“Not as such. I don’t want to make a diagnosis on preliminary results alone, hence the deep scan.” She pushed herself to her pedes, her frame creaking alarmingly.

Optimus held the door open for her. She left, transforming as she went. He followed in root mode.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_the clock is running backwards, the roof is caving in_

_i can't see where i'm going, and i can't go where i've been_  

* * *

 

Ironhide joined them out in the hallway, falling neatly into step at Optimus’ heels. Outwardly he was silent, but his sharp-edged warrior’s field crackled with a painful mix of worry and rage.

// _Ah saw Ratch go past_ // he sent over their private comm line, glyphs edged in hot jitters of temper. // _Saw what they did to him. Ah haven’t smelled that much nangel since Palisade got his stupid aft blown open at Polyhex._ //

Optimus shook his helm, trying to find the words to reply. He hadn’t told Ironhide the full details of what had happened to Ratchet – but given the old warrior’s breadth of experience, it was entirely possible that he’d guessed on his own. Likely, in fact, looking at the way his mouth twitched as if he wanted to sneer, optics flashing with a malevolence Optimus hadn’t known he possessed. 

How much did he know? Optimus didn’t think he had the mental fortitude to ask.

Cuirasse came to a halt outside an unmarked door, unfolding from her altmode. She plucked a tablet from subspace, waving it in front the scanner set beside the doorframe. Lights blinked from red to blue, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss of pressurized atmosphere.

“Delicate instruments in here,” she said absently, waving Optimus through. Ironhide recieved a dubious squint, but was allowed to enter with no outward comment. 

It was quiet inside the lab, the hum and tick of machinery the only sounds. Dark, too, the only light coming from the monitors glowing on every wall, a bank of strip lights at the far end of the room. Two med techs huddled over a bench underneath, one intently studying the readouts on an active screen in front of her while the other peered through a window into the room beyond.

“Down there.” Cuirasse nodded at the techs. “Caduceus on the left, Readout at the window. We’re running a full-spectrum scan at the moment. It’s dependent on the results, of course, but I don’t believe we’ll need any more than that.”

The mech at the window glanced over his shoulder, optics widening minutely as he caught sight of Optimus. He hadn’t been resident at the Altihexi base long enough for most mecha to become used to his presence – although, Optimus supposed, with the amount of fantastical stories the rank and file told about him, he shouldn’t expect to ever be regarded as just another one of the commanders.

“Percentage complete?” Cuirasse asked as they reached the observation bench. Readout focused gratefully on her, through flickers of apprehension still branched through his EM field.

“78 – 80 percent at the moment. We estimate just another couple of minutes until completion.”

“Which is fortunate, since the stasis coding is starting to wear off,” Caduceus put in, shuffling over so that Optimus could look through the window. “His helm and chassis are braced, but there are no limb restraints on the tray. I don’t think he’d have appreciated them anyway.”

Through the glass, Optimus caught sight of his mate, halfway obscured within the barrel of a massive full-frame scanner. He half-heard the medics launching into a detailed conversation behind him, and part of his mind told him that he really ought to listen just in case they were saying something important. He was no medic, though, and it quickly proved beyond his abilities.  

His spark leapt and twisted uncomfortably as Ratchet’s one remaining hand twitched. The bond pulsed faintly, the touch of Ratchet’s mind no longer seeming quite so far away.

He reached out through it, slowly, hesitantly: _I am here, waiting for you._

As yet, there was no answer.

“Optimus?” Ironhide’s voice brought him up short. He turned, and was greeted with four pairs of expectant optics, Ironhide’s hovering head and shoulders above the medics’.

“Yes?” There was the nagging sense that his voice was beginning to break again, but Ratchet was _right there_ , so close, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything beyond that. “Did you need something?”

Looking rather taken aback, Cuirasse replied. “Yes, in fact. We need to know if there was anything… unusual about the manner in which he went offline. Anything you can tell us that may help us understand why we’re getting the readings we are.”

Her expression was flat, her field leaden. Optimus scanned the two med techs, and found they weren’t much better.

He called up the few intact memory files he had of the rape, closing his optics and locking his dente against the flood of manic nausea they brought back. He didn’t want to purge, he _would not purge;_ now more than ever he needed the stoic mask of the Prime to keep himself functioning and _useful_ —

— _glowing magma under his fingertips, floating islands of crystal drifting across the viscous surface. His arms burned where they touched Ratchet, water hissing and boiling off into clouds of hellish steam, but he offered himself without care for his own pain, anything to ease the attack ripping his mate open from within—_

He shook his helm, delving deeper. His forearms prickled, sensor grid alight with imagined sensation.

_—gentle kisses, harsh bursts of exvents under a darkened sky. Exhaustion wore the energy from Ratchet’s resistance, sapped the bright orange colour from his quartz. Optimus was all that was keeping him upright. When would they finally stop? How much longer would he suffer?— Optimus snapped the bud from the thought; he could not let himself give in to his own anger, not at any cost._

In the real world, he looked back through the glass, his attention resting for the moment upon Ratchet’s prone body. There was no more anger, not for the moment – just a spark-deep exhaustion, glittering shards of ice digging deep into the crevasses of his mind.

“It wasn’t anything they did,” he said, suddenly sure of the answer. “Well – to be more accurate, it must have been related—“ to the rape, but the words shrivelled on his glossa as he said them— “but it was not intentional. I know that it hurt; I felt it too.”

The two med techs shared an unreadable look. “Can you describe it?” asked Cuirasse, who apparently had more self-control. “I am sorry for asking – I understand that this is a deeply personal matter, but we have so few records of this particular diagnosis that we need every little symptom to be anything close to sure.”

“What do you mean?” Optimus gripped the edge of the bench, hard enough to leave black paint scrapes in the metal. “I don’t know that I can describe it in any detail, but it felt like breaking, like dying. The closest comparison I have is to the time I spent integrating the Matrix, but I have no words to describe that either. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t the medics he was apologising to.

Movement caught his optic – the scanner’s light switching off, the tray sliding out of the barrel. Ratchet’s helm slumped to the side, catching against the brace. There was a faint flicker of consciousness through the bond, and Optimus reacted in a nanoklik, wrapping all the love and support he had to offer around the growing spark.

There was something odd beneath Ratchet’s presence, a barely-seen glimmer of frost. Like black ice on Iacon’s roads, Optimus had to look hard to spot it. He sent a tendril of curiosity to investigate, but the ice had vanished by the time it got there.

“Like fragmenting, perhaps?” Cuirasse suggested, as Readout and Caduceus vanished into the scanner room. She followed Optimus’ line of sight, and gave a twisted smile. “He should be coming back online now; you ought to be able to feel it. He may feel a little strange – I obviously don’t know what forms your bond takes, but whatever you’ve gotten used to, he won’t be the same.”

She took a slow inward vent, and added, “He’s carrying a newspark.”

Ice crashed through Optimus’ processor, numbing time to a crawl. He locked his joints and disabled his motor relays, offlining his vocaliser while he wrestled himself back under control. Cuirasse took a step backwards, swaying under the weight of Optimus’ field; Ironhide remained where he was, but his optics were wide and his stance stiff and unnatural. Optimus clawed back as much of his field as he could, but his control had been shattered and stray wisps lashed around him, sharp with denial.

“Was he…?” He couldn’t force out the rest of the sentence, the idea that the Decepticons might have raped Ratchet’s very spark too sickening to bear. Surely they couldn’t have. Wouldn’t he have felt it? He’d held Ratchet through it, taken his mate within himself and guarded him in what little ways he could. They’d been separated by a thousand leagues, the curve of the planet itself, and Optimus had still shared the pain.

Cuirasse shook her head – it would not have been very hard to guess at the words omitted. “We’re pretty sure not. There was no suggestion of his core locks having been either hacked or physically forced, whether the attempt was successful or not. However, the spark readings we’re getting indicate the presence of a very young newspark orbiting his own – less than two orns old, certainly, perhaps less than one. Additionally, the electrical activity within his generation systems is averaging far higher than normal.” She brought out a datapad, passing it to Optimus. “This is the baseline pulse of his spark – the top graph shows a ten-second cycle at rest, and the bottom is the same ten-second cycle under stress. These were taken two vorn ago at his most recent full checkup.”

The screen went blank for a nanoklik, the network icon at the bottom of the interface blinking. A new graph replaced the first two; Optimus recognised the pattern of the increased-stress readout, but—

Cuirasse reached up, tapped the wildly-spiking spark signature completely alien to Ratchet’s own. “This is the newspark. It’s still gathering the plasmatic material it needs to fully ignite, hence the erratic pulse and heightened activity. This is not unexpected on its own; most newsparks go through a similar period. Twenty-five percent of all kindlesparks gutter during this period, most through lack of energy, which is why it’s recommended to merge often and regularly when attempting to kindle. I would say that this one has a fairly good chance of survival no matter what you do, despite the manner of its creation.”

“What do you mean?” Optimus said, his own voice echoing distantly within his audials. He felt hollow, as though hands had reached beneath the plates of his chassis and plucked out most of his internal components. He tracked the rhythmic rise and fall of Ratchet’s pulse on the datapad screen, the newspark flaring just out of step with its parent’s spark.

Cuirasse answered with a question of her own. “How much do you know about budding?”

Optimus met her gaze in surprise. “Very little.” The dots connected in his processor, and at long last a small thread of relief wended through the depths of his spark. “Do you think that it was budded?”

“Sparks under intense stress tend to split,” Cuirasse sighed. “We’ve known this for a long time, and the prevalence of hot-spectralisation – that is, sparks which destabilise and burn hotter than their natural spectra as a result – among victims of extended torture confirm that this is not necessarily a death sentence. There have been theories floating around for almost as long that perhaps if the parent spark is strong enough or the fractured material gathers in large enough amounts – well, it’s essentially the same process as an intended budding.”

She drew in a nervous vent. “I think that that thermoelectric sword was pumping more energy than he could cope with into his systems for close on half a joor. The rape – and, forgive me for saying this – the newness of your bond, the frequent interfaces that confirming a new bond requires, all that primed his gestational systems for carrying. When his spark fractured under the stress, his generational protocols interpreted that fracture as part of the overlying pattern rather than a coincidental attack, and wove the released plasma into a newspark.”

Optimus nodded, slowly, silently. “Then… had we not bonded, he may not have been in this position right now.”

Cuirasse frowned, opened her mouth to speak – but, unexpectedly, Ironhide interrupted.

“It ain’t yer fault, Optimus – don’t go thinking that for a second. Yeh did the best yet could. I heard yeh argued with Ratchet, tried to talk him out of going. Yeh aren’t responsible for this, any more than he is.”

Optimus straightened under his bodyguard’s reproving gaze. “I am aware of that,” he said, aware of Cuirasse stepping backward on the edge of his visual field, “and I don’t intend to place the blame for this anywhere but on the heads of those who committed this crime. I am simply facing the consequences of my actions—”

For the first time in all the vorns of their acquaintance, Ironhide interrupted him. “Really? ‘Cause it sounds to me like yer beatin’ yerself up. Feels it, too.” He pushed his field against Optimus’, hard and mirror-like. The strength of the self-loathing reflected in it threw Optimus well off-balance. “Bonding’s s’posed to be the best thing for both of yeh. If yeh let yerself regret it, yeh’ll be miserable for the rest of yer lives. And besides which, what’s Ratchet supposed to think? No matter how well—thought-out yeh think yer reasoning is, yeh know rationalism ain’t exactly his first instinct.”

The light in his optics was old, knowing. Optimus’ anger subsided before he’d even realised it was there.

“Thank you,” he said, suddenly feeling tired beyond all reasonable explanation. He reached out through the bond, automatically seeking the comfort of Ratchet’s presence.

“Ain’t a problem, Optimus.” Ironhide gave another push of his field, this one blunt and warm, offering friendship. “Ah’ve been bonded twice; Ah know how these things work. Pretty sure Ah’m right in thinkin’ Ratchet ain’t the only one who needs a friend right now.”

From the scanner room’s door, Cuirasse made an unobtrusive noise. Optimus looked up. Movement caught his optic, the slow, groggy movements of a mech fighting off the last of a stasis sequence.

The medic smiled, and said, “He’s waking up.”

Soft, sleepy thoughts enfolded him – thoughts not his own. Ratchet’s presence was tired, but strong. Optimus’ threw himself into the bond, barely conscious of hurrying into the scanner room.

The two med techs had shifted Ratchet from the tray of the  scanner onto a wheeled berth, laying him on his side while they arranged a soft mesh pad beneath what was left of his shoulder. The drip had been hooked up to the corner of the berth, a thin line disappearing beneath the armor low on his side. Optimus was beside the berth in two long strides.

Ratchet’s field brushed against his, optics cracking open. He focused blearily, attempting to turn his helm. Optimus swept around the berth, knelt by the pillow and took Ratchet’s remaining hand in his.

Ratchet smiled, gently squeezing Optimus’ servo. It took a few tries before he was able to speak audibly, and when he did it was in whispered Protihexi – his native language. “Hello, Optimus.”

“Welcome back,” Optimus replied in the same language, unable to stop the answering smile even if he’d wanted to. “I am so glad to have you back.” 

“’know that already,” Ratchet said, blinking slowly. “Can feel it.” His field furled away, and came back a little stronger. “I hurt. All over. Did I… was I hurt?”

Optimus stilled, the smile freezing on his lips. “Do you not remember?”

Ratchet gave his best approximation of his usual suspicious frown. “Remember what?”

A moment, cold and fearful. Optimus switched back to traders’ Iaconian. “He doesn’t remember,” he reported to the medics, new worry gnawing at his spark chamber. “He asked me how he was hurt.”

Ratchet frowned, letting go of his hand. “’M still here,” he mumbled, still in Protihexi. “Can still understand you.”

Cuirasse pursed her lips. “It’s not unheard of. Not all danger is physical, and medics have very well-developed self-preservation protocols.”

As she spoke, the med techs carefully rolled Ratchet onto his back, positioning the bracing cushion underneath the stump of his shoulder. Ratchet’s helm flopped back onto his pillow, his optics opening wide and focusing on his missing arm. He frowned. His hand came up to cup the patch the medics had welded over the bare protomass to protect it. He swallowed, and made a small noise of pain.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, not liking the sudden distant note in his field, “are you hurting? Can you look at me?”

“I,” Ratchet began, and his optics drifted closed, his faceplates tensing, “can’t. Don’t want to.” His fingers curled closed, scraping against the welds on the patch. He sucked in a quick breath, his internal fans rattling. Optimus reached out, resting his servo on Ratchet’s forearm.

Ratchet flinched.

Indecision froze Optimus in his tracks. He watched Ratchet’s throat cabling work, swallowing reflexively. What should he do? The relief of having his bondmate back vanished under the weight of sudden fear – how could he help when the smallest of movements reminded Ratchet in some small way of what had happened? He felt small, in a way he’d almost forgotten, looking upon something bigger than himself, bigger than them both.  

Cuirasse quietly ushered the med techs away from the berth, sending them and Ironhide out into the monitor room. She approached the berth, but did not come close.

“Talk to him, Prime,” she urged, crossing her arms across her chassis. “Use the language he’s speaking at the moment, keep your voice calm and slow. Don’t try to remind him of anything yet, but if the memories come then don’t try to stop them because you likely won’t be able to. Just give him something to concentrate on that’s in the here and now.”   

Optimus closed his optics and forced his clouded mind to move. He made to draw his hand away – but Ratchet caught it before it had gone halfway.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked, layering his field with notes on love and care and the strength of support, as much of it as he dared. “Can you look at me? Do you remember where you are?”

Cyan optics cracked open, glowing with a too-bright intensity. Ratchet stared up at the ceiling, his lips moving faintly, his grip on Optimus’ wrist almost painful. Optimus repeated his questions. This time, Ratchet blinked.

Optimus continued, hoping. “You are in the deep scanning room of the Altihexi Autobot Headquarters medical wing, the former Altihex Academy of Medical Engineering. I am with you. Do you remember me?“

Ratchet nodded, licked his lips, a quick furtive motion as if he were afraid of being seen. His vocaliser crackled static for a moment, before he said, “Someone else, here in the room. I can’t remember. Who?”

Optimus glanced at Cuirasse. Ratchet’s grip on his wrist tightened, making his plating creak. “She is Cuirasse, a surgeon, the Altihexi Commanding Medical Officer and your second-in-command here. She has a thick Tyrestrin accent and makes an exceedingly potent overcharge cure.”

“Accent’s terrible,” Ratchet muttered, and finally his optics glanced away from the ceiling, his mind coming back from whichever faraway place it had fled back to. “Optimus, I’m tired. My shoulder hurts. Where’s it gone?”

“Your joint was damaged beyond repair. The medics detached your arm just below the socket and removed the components. They’re going to make you an entirely new shoulder, plating and all.” Optimus rotated his wrist, attempting to remind Ratchet of his grip without touching him further, since that had been an ill-advised idea last time.

Ratchet stared at his hand as if he’d never seen it before. He loosened his grip, but didn’t quite let go. “Damage reports?”

Optimus relayed his request to Cuirasse. The medic stepped forward, pulling her datapad out of subspace. Ratchet twisted around, keeping her in his line of sight.

“Here,” she said, snapping the stylus out of its clip and passing both to Optimus. “First and second surgeons’ reports, details of injury, recommended treatment plan as overseen by me. You may keep the datapad for the duration of your stay. I suggest absorbing its contents over several days; you are still recovering from the effects of extended stasis and surgery. Prime can take care of it until you can see straight.”

“I can see straight,” Ratchet protested, still in Protihexi. Cuirasse glanced at Optimus for the translation, and scoffed when she got it.

“You’re five minutes awake after two joor in stasis, both emergency and medically-enforced. Perhaps if you were a few thousand vorn younger than you are, and even then I’d doubt it. You’re on the verge of falling into recharge on your own.”

“I’m a medic; I know what I’m capable of.” Ratchet made as if to pull himself up via his grip on Optimus’ arm.

Optimus shifted, pulling back. “Please don’t, Ratchet,” he said quietly. “You need to rest.”

Ratchet stared at him. “Optimus. I can’t. It hurts.”

The plaintive note in his voice very nearly broke Optimus’ spark. “I know it does,” he said, cupping Ratchet’s hand in his own. The touch made Ratchet’s optics shutter, sighing through his vents. “You need to recharge. When you wake up, your body will hurt less, and you will be able to think clearer.”

“Stasis coding’s still active,” Ratchet said, but let himself relax back against the berth. “Put scrap in my processor. Stay with me, Optimus?”

Optimus smiled, brushing his thumb over Ratchet’s knuckles. “I will.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **\+ On Work Shifts:** The 52 joor in a Cybertronian orn cycle are divided into six work shifts of 8 joor, three of which are the ‘night shifts’ and three of which are ‘day shifts’. These are as follows – morning shift, midday, afternoon, evening, midnight, dawn shift. There are 4 joor left over between these regular shifts; prior to the war these ‘free joor’ were generally left to the employer to place as needed. 
> 
> \+ _Lyrics at the top of the chapter are from 'Brother' by Gin Wigmore_

* * *

_got all the pieces to the puzzle but can’t seem to make it fit_

_so I'm lost  
tell me where to go_

* * *

 

Optimus spent the rest of the night in an armchair beside Ratchet’s berth in the recovery ward. Beside him, Ratchet recharged in peace.

The ward was high up in the old Academy, high enough to make the large windows set into the walls worth it. There was a small crystal garden on the rooftop of a shorter tower between the medical center and the main bulk of the Autobot Headquarters that caught the faint predawn light and cast fantastic patterns onto the facades of the surrounding buildings. Optimus watched the shadows shrink back down into the gaps between buildings as the darkness faded and the pink glow of dawn stretched its electrum fingers over a cloud-streaked sky.

Cuirasse came back near sunrise with the ward nurse in tow. Together they unscrewed the temporary patch over Ratchet’s shoulder wound, replacing the nanite gel-soaked mesh patch underneath with a fresh one and checking the formation of new oxide over his flayed protomass. Optimus watched intently though the sight made his tanks churn, unwilling to let Ratchet out of his sight.

“He’s doing well,” Cuirasse said, lifting Ratchet while the nurse cleaned a seeping patch of internal oils from the berth mesh beneath his shoulder. “I hope we’ll be able to release him by the afternoon shift this orn, depending on preliminary psych evaluations.”

“So soon?” Optimus asked. He reached out, laid his servo over Ratchet’s, stroked the back of his hand though he knew Ratchet couldn’t feel it. “It seems rather quick.”

Cuirasse made a face. “Yes. Clearing berths, you know how it is. Once his fluids are up a little more and his power core is full-capacity again, we’re going to work on bringing him back into the real world. From then, it’ll be mostly up to him. –Medical override key, primary abdominal port,” she told the ward nurse. “Let’s have a look at that newspark.”

The nurse met Optimus’ gaze for a short moment, quietly empathic, before she bent to open the port on Ratchet’s side. Cuirasse brought a scanner over from a nearby table. She threaded a pair of plugs into Ratchet’s medical ports, and the mechanism, an unassuming thing like a handheld chip computer, beeped twice as they connected.

“This is a very specific sort of deep-systems scanner,” Cuirasse explained. “Gestational components are some of our oldest and most archaic components. There’s a surprising amount of coding in there that isn’t derived from – or even related to – very much else in our blueprints at all, which makes looking after carrying mecha an intensive specialisation. Most scanners work via one set of systems – electrical, coding, neural, or mechanical. This one combines all four. This gives us the most accurate scan we can get short of a surgical examination, which at this early stage is out of our reach anyway.”

They waited in silence for a few minutes. Optimus curled his fingers around Ratchet’s and held tight.

The ward nurse straightened, and left. A transmission encoded in medical frequencies went past. Cuirasse nodded shortly, her frown deepening.

“Alright,” she said, resting her chin on her knuckles and scrolling through the readout on the scanner’s screen. “The newspark has ignited and settled into orbit around his spark. Ratchet’s gestation chamber is expanding ahead of the frame assembly period. The electrical nets in his abdomen are experiencing heightened activity and his coding is activating generative protocols. At this point, I’d say, the newspark has a 96% chance of survival on its own. I will add this information to the treatment plan; doubtless when he wakes up, Ratchet will want as much information as he can get.”

She disconnected the scanner from Ratchet’s systems and turned the screen to face Optimus. “It’s too early to say for sure, but it’s looking like the newspark will be hot-spectrae, B-Spectra perhaps.”

Optimus, himself a hot-spectrae spark, leant forward, studying the thermal readouts. He bit his glossa until it bled, then spoke with a voice far more steady than it had any right to be: “I confess I know very little about kindling and carrying. What are our options?”  

“For now? Not a whole lot. Early-term abortion is exceedingly dangerous; Ratchet would have to pass very stringent mental health examinations if he were to choose that option. While the newspark is attached to his own, while they occupy the same chamber, anything that happens to the newspark is likely to affect him as well. The mortality rate of such procedures is close to 60%.”

Optimus’ free hand, the one not holding Ratchet’s, twinged. He took a deep breath and relaxed it slowly, the overstressed cables releasing gratefully.

“His health and his choice are the two most important things to consider,” he said, twining his fingers with Ratchet’s. “I won’t have his autonomy compromised any further. If he chooses to terminate it, I will support him. If he chooses to keep it, I could do no different.”

They hadn’t thought about having children for a long time. It had never so much as been discussed; the war had taken up so much of their time that in the rare moments in which they had time enough to be together as partners and lovers rather than Prime and medic, the distant future had been the furthest thing from their minds. The present was all they could afford to worry about, or so Optimus had felt. 

Optimus shook his head at his own foolishness. He cupped Ratchet’s hand in both of his own and raised it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the knuckles. _I’m sorry,_ he thought.

It hurt, it _hurt_ to think that the chance of that future had been taken away from them. And the idea that Ratchet might spend the next few vorn raising a child born of his rape, that burned like molten steel. Try as he might, Optimus could not see within himself the strength that it might take to assist. There was little pride or selfishness left in him but for where Ratchet was concerned; he was Optimus’ solid rock, the core of his world. The small part of him that was still unbridled Orion Pax, young and strong but very much alone, he cried out to be allowed this one person to love and cherish and protect. Orion Pax worked very much in ideals: he wanted to share with and share in Ratchet, in this and all things. The idea that he could not share in Ratchet’s children was anathema.

The alternative, though, was unthinkable. To leave Ratchet on his own… shame curled through his spark at the very idea.

The vows he had made in bonding to Ratchet echoed through the back of his processor, memory files replaying unbidden. Optimus vented hard. He was afraid to the very core of his spark, _terrified_ that he might not be strong enough, of trying and failing and _letting Ratchet down_ — _what if my best is not good enough, what if I can’t be what he needs, what if I hurt him again even as I try to help?_

He stopped, staring wide-opticked at the glyphs in the thoughts. At the pronouns: I. Me. My.

Optimus buried his face in his hands.

If Ratchet chose to terminate the sparkling, Optimus would be whatever support and safetynet he needed. If Ratchet chose to keep it, then he would do his best to be that sparkling’s sire regardless.

It was the only thing – and everything – he could do.

If that effort was, or wasn’t, enough? _That was not his judgement to make._

Cuirasse watched him with empathy glowing in her field. She was silent until he raised his optics to hers again, wordlessly asking that she continue.

“Likely the course of action most prudent, should he choose it, would be to wait until the newspark separates from his own, between three and four quartexes from now. Late-term abortions are a great deal safer, although not without their own dangers.” She put the scanner down. “The time frame concerns me most. The longer he waits, the more his coding invests in the newspark.”

On the berth, Ratchet’s internal fans whirred quietly. Optimus’ sensitive audials picked up faint stuttering noise, a sleepy little sneeze.

He smiled despite himself, clutching tight to Ratchet’s hand. Six orns ago he’d woken with their positions reversed, Optimus prone on the big berth in his own suite with Ratchet sitting on the edge, swinging his pedes like a mech a fraction of his age as the rising sun streamed in through the window, as bright and hot as the bond still settling in their sparks. He didn’t think they’d let go of each other’s servos for the entire morning.

“And if he decides to carry it to term?”

“Adoption is always an option. Not one that I think he is very likely to choose, but I digress.” The medic stood, fiddling for a moment with the IV line. “You should get a little rest before he wakes up, Prime, sir. You’re probably going to need it.”

* * *

The sun rose. 

It took another three joor for Ratchet’s vitals to come up to a level which satisfied Cuirasse. Having attempted to follow the medic’s advice and failed on several counts, Optimus passed the time doing what little work he could manage from the chair beside his bondmate’s berth. This was slow going; he couldn’t concentrate for much more than a few breem at a time.

(If he had been able to, he might have noticed that the amount of paperwork being sent to his inbox was considerably less than usual. Prowl sent his regard in nonverbal ways.)

He was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the past orn in every reach of his systems. His optics kept closing halfway, his damper systems shutting down to preserve energy. He nursed a cube of midgrade smuggled into the ward by an uncharacteristically apologetic Mirage, who possessed a healthy respect for the medical staff only surpassed by his regard for the health and wellbeing of his Prime. The energon kept the darkness from the edges of his visual field, but it would only be a stopgap measure. Sooner or later, he’d have to shut down for real, or else risk dropping into stasis where he sat. 

When Cuirasse next came back, flanked by First Aid and a little orange minibot whom she introduced as Rung, he drained the last of the cube and set down his datapad, work suddenly the last thing on his priority queue.

Rung walked around the berth and took up a place beside Optimus’ chair as the two medics removed the monitoring equipment. For a moment Optimus found himself staring: the little mech’s optical array was almost entirely obscured by a beaky mask, his optics glowing huge and wide beneath a pair of thick scholarly goggles. He held out a friendly servo in an unmistakeably upper-class greeting. Optimus’ returning grip swallowed both servo and stick-thin wrist.

“I am Rung,” he said, sharp Iaconian glyphs articulated in a soft Petrexi accent. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Optimus Prime, although not under such circumstances. How are you feeling?”

His field was calm and still, and he was _old_ beneath it, perhaps one of the oldest mecha Optimus had ever met. He glanced back to Ratchet, and made the split-second decision to trust Rung.

“I feel tired,” he said. It came out with a heartfelt flicker of his field. “Large parts of me keep hoping that it is just a particularly cruel recharge flux, and that if I fall asleep I will wake up in the morning with Ratchet beside me and that life will continue on as usual. It is the same part of me that hopes the war can be ended tomorrow with no further loss of life, however, and I find that conjunction irrationally angering.”

There was a groan from the berth as Ratchet shook off the last of the stasis codes. His optics flickered online, and almost immediately he sought out Optimus.

Unlike the previous night there was little confusion, and no hesitation. He was pushing himself upright as soon as he had movement in his limbs, pain rippling through his field as he stopped barely long enough to look down at himself.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, offering his servo. It was caught in a death grip, borne to the medical berth as Ratchet doubled over, wrapping his field close around his frame. He opened his mouth, closed it again, shuttered his optics and exvented hard.

He hadn’t yet been repainted, and suddenly Optimus wished they’d done it first. The foreign paint transfers had been scrubbed away, but Ratchet’s own coat still bore several deep scratches, right down to the metal. He looked away from Ratchet for a microsecond, composing a silent databurst to Cuirasse.

Ratchet chose that moment to find his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, in Protihexi, his servo tightening around Optimus’. “You were right – I never should have taken that mission, I’m sorry.” He repeated it, “I’m sorry,” over and over again until his vocaliser lapsed into silence.

Optimus stared dumbly, physically unable to foment a response for so long that Ratchet’s grip on his servo loosened, hesitant. “It’s not your fault,” he managed, cupping both hands around Ratchet’s. “You have nothing to apologise for—not to me, nor to anyone.”

Ratchet stared down at their hands, his dente bared in an anguished half-snarl. “You were right, and I’m sorry I didn’t _listen_ to you— I just, I wanted to _help_ and I thought I could do it but I couldn’t run fast enough and Cutlass died because of me.” His vents juddered, a choked sob. “I thought I was going to die as well, and you with me – they just, they _killed_ him and they came after me and I couldn’t think, I just _did_ and I thought if I could just stay alive then someone would find me. Anything was worth that, I thought, Optimus. I’m so sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” Optimus repeated, numb. “You’re alive, and that’s what matters the most. To me, and to everyone here.” Had he really heard that right? Had Ratchet just implied that violent rape had been a bargain, a price he’d willingly paid for survival? _Primus below_. He opened his end of the bond as far as it would go and reached through with love and hope and strength, offering himself. Ratchet clung to him with starving thoughts, the brilliant reaches of his mind desolate. Used-up, Ratchet thought.

// _You are not used_ // Optimus thought, as hard as he dared. // _You have been beaten and attacked and invaded in the most cruel of ways, but you are not used. You survived. You did what you could, and I love you so much._ //

Ratchet’s vocaliser crackled. // _I’m sorry._ // The bond echoed with residual pain, sharp and tearing. // _I still feel like I’m going to die. It hurts, in my spark._ //

The sparkling. Optimus tamped down a fresh wellspring of grief before Ratchet could feel it. Conceived from rape. He hurt – for Ratchet, for himself, and for the little newspark too, black ice encasing his spark.

// _Ratchet_ // he said, fighting it off, // _you’re carrying._ //

Ratchet looked straight at him for the first time since he’d woken up. Cyan optics widened impossibly. // _I—what? When? Did we kindle?_ // His field whirled, nebulous and unreadable.

Optimus shook his helm. // _We didn’t. It’s not— I’m not the sire._ //

“Impossible,” Ratchet said out loud. “My core locks, my spark, they never touched that. It must be ours.”

Optimus looked to Cuirasse for help, but the doctors had retreated, giving them a moment of privacy. “It’s not; it’s too young.”

“ _How_ young?” Ratchet all but snarled. He felt like he was on the verge of panic, all fizzing energy and sharp-edged fear. Optimus bent down, fished the datapad containing his medical records out from where he’d put it underneath his chair last night. Ratchet snatched it from Optimus’ servos, turned it on, and found he had no free hand with which to scroll. He glanced at his missing shoulder and the microplates of his face drew tight in remembered agony.

Optimus took the pad from his nerveless hand. “Cuirasse believes it is less than an orn old.” He found the relevant section and passed it back. Ratchet took it silently, scanning the text with feverish optics. “She has also speculated that it was budded rather than kindled. I apologise, the details have escaped me.”

Ratchet braced the pad against his knee and scrolled downwards. “It’s impossible, the odds are more than a million to one.” He looked up, and his optics met Optimus’, wide and horrified. “I overloaded. They—they did that to me and I came so many times. I can’t – help me, Optimus; I don’t know what to do!”

Optimus reached out with arms and thoughts, unthinking. Ratchet’s spark reached back, but his body hesitated. A second: one, two. Their servos met. A moment later, their optics. Ratchet’s lips parted, the beginning of a question on the tip of his glossa. _Can I?_

Optimus nodded.

His chair rocked back on two legs, his arms suddenly full of his bondmate. Ratchet gave a choked cry of pain and latched on with servos so tight they scraped curls of paint from Optimus’ back and shoulders. Their sparks throbbed in twain, the closeness a relief so intense it hurt after orns of separation.

He wrapped his arms around Ratchet, holding fast, secure but not overly tight. The chemical smell of the nangel patch filled the air, so much it stunk. The morning sunlight gleamed against Ratchet’s white and orange plating.

Wretched sobs, one after the other. Ratchet’s vents shrilled, overworked. He buried his face in the curve of Optimus’ neck between clavicular strut and shoulder armor, gasping through his mouth.

// _What can I do?_ // he asked through comms, his mental voice halting and miserable. // _I’m sorry._ //

Optimus rested his chin against the crown of Ratchet’s helm. // _As I said before, there is nothing here you need to apologise for. It is not your fault this happened._ //

Ratchet wailed. // _But I said they could! I was so afraid that they were going to kill me that I gave them the idea and I sat down and I spread my legs for them and— and I felt them come inside me and I_ overloaded, _Optimus!_ // He spat the words like weapons, throwing them at Optimus even as he clawed at Optimus’ back and pressed himself so close it seemed he was trying to worm beneath Optimus’ plating. // _I as good as asked for it! I was thinking of you the whole time. I didn’t want to die._ //

// _Very few people truly do_ // Optimus replied, stroking one hand over the small of Ratchet’s back. Ratchet shuddered, heaving in a deep breath. // _Ratchet, the only person who needs to forgive you is yourself. But if you can’t do that now, then that is okay. Neither do you need to know what to do with yourself right now. You are still severely injured and in shock. Your arm will be repaired, but the rest will take far longer. You don’t have to make up your mind on anything right now. And I want you to know that I am, and always will be, here for you._ //

Ratchet was silent for a long while. His ventilations slowed, the frenzied whining of his internal fans dying down. When he eventually spoke, it was with a quiet question.

“Where’s that datapad?”

Optimus scanned the bay, craning his neck to see over Ratchet’s shoulder. “On the floor behind you. Shall I get it?”

Ratchet gave a minute shake of his helm. “No. Just— let me stay for a bit.”

“For as long as you like.” Optimus leant against the padded back of the chair. “You and I have both been relieved of our duties for the remainder of the quartex. Cuirasse and First Aid hope to discharge you by this afternoon, but there is no need to hurry.”

Ratchet made a little raspy cough. It took Optimus a moment to realise it had been intended as a wry laugh.

He looked down at Ratchet, taking in the tired twist of his field. The rush of sudden emotion had drained away and now it left them both on the verge of shutdown. Black spots danced in and out of focus at the edges of Optimus’ vision, details pixelating on his HUD.

“I’m going to keep the newspark,” Ratchet mumbled into Optimus’ neck. “I— I understand if you don’t want anything to do with it, but I’m going to keep it.”

“You don’t have to decide yet,” Optimus said, as neutrally as he could manage.

“Well, I have,” Ratchet said shortly. “Don’t try to talk me out of it—please.”

 _Why?_ Optimus wanted to ask, so very badly. He tried to pretend for a moment that he didn’t know an answer, that the sympathy wending through his spark was for Ratchet and Ratchet alone, but the effort failed. He tightened his arms around Ratchet’s frame, kissing the crown of his helm.

“I won’t,” he said. “And I won’t make you do this alone. Never, never.”

His only answer was a whispered, “Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, wherein we move from the immediate aftermath into the future. 
> 
> Part of the reason this is so late is actually because I've been going through the first four chapters and rewriting parts that didn't meet my current standards of readability. That and tech work. I'm actually being a little naughty in posting this; I was supposed to be studying this week. :B

* * *

_i can’t keep focused, my body’s still shaking_

_my control is shaky, trembling like i am_

_both the sun and my luck have turned the other way_

_but i tell myself i’ve gotta do it_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

Two orns later, the weather had turned. The lights of Altihex glowed dully under a blanket of thick dark cloud, acid rain running in rivulets down the window of Optimus’ personal quarters.

It was comfortably cool inside. He’d had the windows open all day despite the looming clouds. They’d shuttered themselves automatically when the skies opened up late in the afternoon, but by then the mid-vorn heat had dissipated into the silvering atmosphere.

Optimus tapped the end of his stylus against the datapad. The screen was blank. He wasn't really seeing it anyway.

There was a heavy clatter from the kitchen.

Optimus reacted on base coding, lurching up out of his chair and halfway across the room before he arrested himself. It wouldn't do to rush in. He craned to see past the wall which separated the suite's small kitchen from the open-plan living area.

Spilled energon formed a small lake on the floor. Ratchet crouched beside it, picking up the shattered pieces of one of Optimus’ antique crystal energon vessels. He did it one-handed and muttering viciously. His shoulder had not yet healed enough to allow the medics to reattach his right arm; likely the reason he had dropped the vessel in the first place.

Optimus resisted the urge to rush to him and reassure himself that his bondmate was unharmed. Ratchet did not appreciate being babied under the very best of circumstances. Instead he walked – slowly – to the kitchen, turning on the light as he went, collected the dustpan from the bottom of the storage cupboard and – slowly – knelt to sweep away the energon and remnants of crystal too small for Ratchet’s fingers to find a grip on.

The soft yellow of the lights’ daytime setting threw the kitchen into vivid relief. There was the waste compactor, set into the internal wall – Optimus emptied the crystal into it without ceremony, the knowledge that it could never be repaired costing him a small pang of regret.

He heard the sound of Ratchet getting to his feet unassisted, the scrape of his knees over the polished steel floor.

“I’m sorry,” Ratchet said, filling the silence. “I know that was valuable.”

Optimus turned. Ratchet was not looking at him, rather staring at the splayed fingers of his one remaining hand. He made a fist, his field murky and flickering.

“Do not worry, it is of no consequence,” Optimus said, keeping his own tightly furled despite the urge to reach out and comfort. “What happened?”

Ratchet shook his helm, his lips pressing firmly together. “I lost my grip.”

He did not elaborate, leaving Optimus to wonder under what circumstances.

True to her word, Cuirasse had had him discharged from the hospital once his fluids returned to functional levels.

Ratchet had at first insisted on being taken to his own quarters, but when presented with the dreary old chaplain’s quarters which he’d been assigned for lack of space upon their arrival in Altihex, had paused in the doorway, his field tamping down and his armour drawing tight over his frame. Optimus had not asked after the source of his reluctance; simply offered him accommodation elsewhere.

They’d slept together last night. Recharged, not interfaced, but even that felt like a miracle to Optimus. He had been anxious, but quite prepared for the possibility that Ratchet might not have wanted to share his berth. There was only one in the apartment – his own. He’d eventually gathered the courage to ask outright.

Ratchet had given him a wholly surprised look, as though he’d never even considered the possibility. “No,” he had said. “I want you there with me. If you want me, that is.”

Ratchet had slept through the entire night. That might have had more than a few things to do with the anti-flux code chips which First Aid had prescribed him, but it had been, again, relieving.

Optimus himself had not been so lucky. Ugly trains of thought had kept him awake into the early hours of the morning. The soft thrum of Ratchet’s systems beside him on the berth had been distracting. He wanted to reach out and draw his mate into his arms, but aside from the initial distraught embrace they had shared that first morning in the hospital, Ratchet had avoided physical contact. Once he’d noticed it, Optimus had endeavoured not to put him in a situation where such contact was necessary.

He had only noticed just how much he used touch as a medium of communication until he began actively trying not to do so.

Ratchet glanced up, meeting Optimus' gaze for a bare second. Bright clinical light glimmered off his curves and angles, his white dulled and his orange subdued. He parted his lips as though he meant to speak, then thought better of it and glanced away. “I’ll use the cheap glasses until I get my hand back.”

“That may be advisable,” Optimus agreed. He drew in a sharp vent, remaining in the kitchen a little longer than was comfortable.

Ratchet made an abortive turn towards the cupboard, halting in mid-step as Optimus reluctantly withdrew.

The anger came hurling back into Optimus’ spark with all the force of a hurricane.

He fought it down, holding his field still and serene through long practice. Ratchet didn’t need to see it. He wouldn’t let it show.

He returned to his desk beside the window, taking up stylus and staring at the scattered datapads in silence. In the distance, the rumbling scream of an overburdened troop transport lifted up and away. Rain tocked quietly against the shutters, dripping down in frustrated streams.

Ratchet came drifting out of the kitchen after a few minutes and padded ghostlike into their berthroom. He shut the door behind him. The click of the lock echoed sharply through the suite.

Optimus shuttered his optics and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

A joor later, when he tried the berthroom door, it was unlocked.

The room beyond was deserted, but the light was on in the en-suite, and he could hear the faint splashing of solvents from the enclosed washrack.

“Ratchet?” he called out, moving into the room.

The berth had been completely divested of its covers. Undersheet and coverlet lay in rumpled folds in the corner facing the door. The corner of Ratchet's favourite plush pillow could be seen peeking out from underneath the pile.

“Do you mind company?” Optimus asked the air.

There was no verbal answer, but Ratchet's end of the bond gave a great throb of longing at the words. An almost physical ache crept into Optimus' spark. He crossed the room and slipped into the en-suite.

Ratchet was on the floor, huddled up as small as his frame would go beneath the gentle solvent spray. His legs were tucked up close to his chest, his arm looped around them and his forehelm resting on his knees. His EM field dipped and swirled close to his frame, the dull greys and greens of misery. Sponges and harder brushes sat piled on the tiled floor as if he'd tried to push them away.

He lifted his helm at the sound of footsteps, scowl fading away. His throat cabling worked. He parted his lips as he meant to say something, but the words stuck in his vocaliser and he froze, staring helplessly at Optimus' pedes.

Optimus knelt beside him, careful again not to touch. The solvent drummed lightly on his plating, running beneath armour and into tense joint mechanisms. His neural net prickled, the sensation urging him to relax. Like Ratchet he couldn't seem to find the words with which to give voice to his thoughts. He settled for a concerned brush of his field across the outer layers of Ratchet's, just light enough to be tactful.

Ratchet closed his mouth with an audible snap. He lifted his optics away to the wall and pressed his lips together, giving a small, self-disgusted shake of his helm. “I feel sick,” he muttered. His field sharpened and turned inwards, black threads wending through the murky wavelengths.

“Do you need a waste bin?” Optimus asked.

Ratchet shook his helm again. “Don't. I just...” he trailed off, frowning as if to reject the end of that sentence. No substitute was forthcoming. He let himself go unexplained, covering his mouth with his servo.

“All right.” Optimus wondered if perhaps he was intruding on something private. Ratchet had shut off his end of the bond again, and though emotions swirled beyond it like tempests at the blazing center of a galaxy, the barrier was glassy and reflected his attempts to send a little support through it. “Would you like me to stay here with you?”

A shaky nod this time.

The soft yellow ensuite lights glimmered steadily. The ceiling fan hummed, drawing away steam.

Ratchet glanced sidelong up at Optimus. He hunkered down a little, so that the height difference between them was not quite so pronounced, and met his mate's gaze. Ratchet's optics were drawn and tight, his brow ridges pulled low. The light of his optics was bright but wavering from second to second. The barrier over their bond grew thin, thunder rumbling behind it.

“If ever you want my company or counsel,” Optimus began, testing each word for veracity before he spoke it, “I will be here for you.”

It was, word for word, what he'd said to Ratchet during their secret midnight bonding ceremony, eight orns ago. The memory file unpacked itself from his short-term archives, ready to be played through at will.

Ratchet moved his hand to Optimus' knee and squeezed lightly, the first time he'd initiated contact since they'd come home.

“I can't,” he said, and the expression he made was ostensibly a smile, but lacked all the warmth and goodwill which Optimus had henceforth associated with them. It was brittle and thin, a baring of dente in pain with a coincidental upward tilt at the corners. “Not yet. I can't hurt you like that.”

“If it would help you—“ Optimus began.

Ratchet cut him off. “It would hurt you, and that would hurt me again, and I can't deal with that yet. I feel like I'm going to purge, even sitting here. I just can't, Optimus.”

Optimus laid his servo on top of Ratchet's and curled his fingers around his mate's. “Tell me what you need from me.”

Ratchet turned his face into the spray. “I don't know. I just—I need to be someone else for a while.” His vents hiccupped. “I can't stand the way you look at me sometimes, but I don't want you to look away. When you're around it's easier to forget the way it feels.”

A hard lump forced its way into the back of Optimus' intake. He wrestled it down, venting deeply. “Is there anything I can do that helps?”

Optics closed, Ratchet shook his helm. When he spoke, it came out a harsh whisper. “I feel like I'm going to die— No. Touch me or don't, it's all the same. I've been in here for more than a joor and I can still feel them on me. It feels like I have acid inside me.”

Optimus quelled the automatic response, to reach out and touch, to comfort the other half of his spark. In this mindset, Ratchet would flinch, and that he didn’t think either of their sparks could bear. “If you think of anything, let me know,” he said, squeezing Ratchet's hand instead.

A small nod, easily missed. Optimus decided not to push the issue. Ratchet would do what he felt best, and all Optimus could do was trust his judgement, as he had been doing for vorns.

“What do I have tomorrow?” Ratchet asked, changing the subject. “I had an outpatient, right?”

Optimus pushed the affirmative into his field. “Physical, I believe. Do you want me there with you?”

Ratchet seemed to think for a moment. “I... perhaps. I'll think about it.”

“Take all the time you need, old friend.” Optimus lifted their joined hands and guided them to Ratchet's chest, just above his spark. He met Ratchet's side-opticked gaze with a faint smile. “I love you very much, Ratchet. I am so glad that you are alive.”

Ratchet looked down. He did not reply, but held Optimus' servo tightly. And it was exactly enough.

* * *

Ratchet fell into recharge there in the washracks. Optimus gathered him into his arms and shut the solvent off, stepping into the dry room and under the fans. Night was gathering outside, the temperature dropping rapidly. The residency tower was well-insulated, but moisture sitting inside one's inner works overnight was not an experience Optimus wanted either of them to wake up to.

Ratchet vented peacefully in his arms, sedate in spark and field. Optimus revelled in his warmth and closeness. Tiny droplets of solvent chased over his plating, driven by the fans. He lost track of time. The fans were warm and he was suddenly tired to the spark. It felt like it had been the longest few days of his life.

He made it to the little nest in the corner and tucked them down among the sheets and pillows, Ratchet gathered close against his chest. He closed his optics.

He onlined the next morning to Ratchet shaking him.

“You have to let me go,” Ratchet was saying, and there was a sort of urgency to his voice which Optimus had never heard before. He let go before his higher thought protocols had even processed the words.

Ratchet lurched upright and stumbled into the en-suite. There was a moment, and the sounds of retching floated out around the partition wall.

Optimus stood and followed him into the en-suite. Ratchet had made it to the washracks. He knelt by the drain, spitting oral lubricant and half-processed energon onto the tiles.

Optimus took the hose head and focused the spray, washing away the rejected fuel. “Are you all right?”

Ratchet flapped a hand at him. “For a given value,” he croaked. He sat back, hand pressed to his mouth. Fine tremors rattled his frame. “I really am pregnant.”

Optimus' spark lurched at the archaic term. He knelt, offering his hands to Ratchet. “Morning sickness?”

“Morning, night, and anything in between,” Ratchet said with a trace of his usual snark. He took Optimus' hands, one at a time, and pressed them to his spark. His optics shuttered. His expression turned painful, the corners of his mouth pulling tight.

His grip on Optimus' hands loosened. Optimus slid his free hands down Ratchet's chest, watching his mate for signs of discomfort. Ratchet's EM field swirled, but he made no move to stop Optimus. His fans kicked up a gear as Optimus' hands reached the upper edge of his grill.

He made a halting attempt at speaking. “Did you... when I said, I mean... did you mean it?”

Optimus blinked. “Did I mean what?”

Ratchet laid his hand on top of Optimus' and pushed them a little lower. “You said that you wouldn't... well, that you wouldn't make me do it alone. I mean, I knew you meant it then, but maybe you've had time to decide otherwise now. Do you— well. It's not yours, but it's not theirs either. Does that make a difference?”

Optimus remained silent a while, sorting each question from the others. Underneath his palms, Ratchet's frame radiated an unnatural heat.

“My decision is the same,” he said, addressing the most immediate of Ratchet's concerns. “I will help you with whatever paths you choose. I made you this vow when we bonded; though I do not approach the situation lightly, it does not change my resolution to walk with you always. If by doing so I can ease your burden even a little, then it will be forever worth doing.”

“There will be times when you can't.” Ratchet gave Optimus' hands a shadowed look, then pushed them away. “Pit damn it, I am making this choice! I have made it! I can't do this any other way, so why do I feel so _wrong?_ ”

“What do you mean, you cannot do this any other way?” Optimus asked, troubled.

Ratchet glanced up at him almost as if he'd forgotten he was there. “It's nothing,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his digits. “Ancient history.”

Optimus let it go, though the implication of force had disturbed him. Ratchet's autonomy had already been violated; the last thing he wanted was for that violation to be compounded with an unwanted carriage.

An unexpected transmission pinged him for attention: Ironhide's comm channel. :: _Awake, Optimus?_ ::

:: _Yes_ :: he replied. :: _Is there a problem?_ ::

He'd used a more somber register than he usually did with Ironhide. The old soldier replied in kind, his text markers noticeably taken aback.

:: _I just got a priority one message from Prowl. He needs you back yesterday. Polyhex just got a bit more complicated._ ::

Optimus digested the message glyph by glyph. Ratchet watched him, patiently and without comment.

:: _I see. Thank you. I will speak to him presently._ ::

:: _No problem. How's Ratchet?_ ::

Ironhide was one of a very few people with the depth of relationship to both Optimus and Ratchet to be able to ask such questions without causing offence. :: _As well as can be expected given the circumstances_ :: Optimus replied, recognising the concern for a friend but unwilling to speak for Ratchet in less than the broadest of terms.

:: _Can't ask for more. Tell him I said hello._ ::

:: _I will_ :: Optimus said, and cut the transmission.

“Are you still feeling nauseous?” he asked aloud, switching his internal comms to Prowl's most encoded frequency and waiting for the XO to acknowledge him.

Ratchet flickered his field in a sharp negative. “No.”

“Prowl has requested my unofficial presence,” he explained. “I gather that our agent had discovered important matters during his stay in Polyhex. Do you prefer I accompany you during your appointment this morning?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “No, go pick Prowl's processors. I'll be fine. The war is more important than me.”

Great Primus below, Optimus wished he could disagree with that. It must have shown, because Ratchet chuffed a quiet laugh at the look on his face.

“You know I'm right,” he said. “I – will be fine. I'll have to start doing this sometime, won't I? It may as well be now.”

Optimus shuffled closer to him, leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to his chevron. He felt Ratchet tense, but even as he pulled back, Ratchet had already tipped his helm forward into the contact.

There was a small silence. A drip of solvent dropped from the showerhead to the tiles with an echoing ping.

Ratchet shook his helm. “My physical response protocols are so slagged up I don't even know where to begin.”

Optimus took Ratchet's hand again. How did one reply to something like that? "You don't have to know the answer to that question right away," he said quietly, pushing wordless support/acceptance through their bond. “Whatever you decide, I will support you where I can."

"I know you will," said Ratchet. And warmth spread through the bond, conscious affection and gratitude that made Optimus' spark pulse faster, a physical reminder that not everything had been stolen from them. 

Prowl accepted the comm call then, Optimus' communications center pinging. He rose, offering Ratchet a hand up. 

They still had each other. That was the important thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics at chapter header from _Golden Time Lover_ (Sukima Switch)
> 
> I worry sometimes that there's just so much of Ratchet's thought process that isn't being shown due to Optimus being the POV character rather than him, and some of it might shine a light on what's going on with him... but then on the other hand, being Ratchet right now is something even he is having trouble with.


	6. Chapter 6

_..._

_one of these days maybe your magic won't affect me_   
_and your kiss won't make me weak_   
_but no one in this world knows me the way you know me_

_..._

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

The night was quiet, the city sleeping under a blanket of high-altitude clouds. Optimus could not see the sky beyond, but a quick check of the meteorological records for the evening showed both of Cybertron's moons rising steadily above the horizons, one coming from the northeast and the other from the west. They would cross each other's path around midnight – a promising omen for a bonding night.

He turned abruptly from the balcony windows and surveyed his apartments. Had he prepared sufficiently? The lower entry hall was strung with handmade prayer flags, to be used for this night only. The tiered steps leading up to his living area had been laid with copper-and-zinc wirecloth, the soft reddish and sharp blued tones glimmering under the apartment lights. He should by rights have a platter of spiced armadine high-grade ready to serve to guests, but since there were none, he'd elected to skimp on that tradition.

He had moved his home altar from its usual position on the top floor above the front door. It was a convenient location for his usual prayers, but to conduct a wedding there would be bad luck. The altar now occupied a bare wall near his balcony, separated from the main apartment space by a colonnade of slim marbled pillars. He'd restocked its burners and votive flares, replacing the white and silver of duty and justice with gold and platinum for new life, blue for devotion and copper for love. His icons of Prima and the Guiding Hand sat on the top level, his once-namesake Orion and the dawn goddess Eos, guardians of the bonded, flanking the offering bowl beneath. His ancient devotive rug, given to him by Alpha Trion so many vorn ago, laid on the floor in front of the altar. He self-consciously straightened a wrinkle in the cloth.

The only thing missing was Ratchet.

Optimus checked his chronometer. Still almost a half joor until midnight.

He attempted to calm his spark, with little success. It spun and clenched within his spark chamber, making him feel dizzy if he thought about it overly much. Primus preserve him.  
He made a quick prayer that their night would not be interrupted with news of the war. It did not make him feel much better.

Had he brought the bonding paint out from its hiding place beneath his berth? He doublechecked. All five pots were there beside the altar: zinc, bronze, copper sulphate, electrum and white gold. Ratchet had ordered them anonymously, from the barter network that had quickly grown up within the Autobot forces. They'd had quite the time smuggling them into Optimus' rooms.

They really shouldn't be doing this. Even this late in the proceedings, a threat of doubt wended through his spark. Their relationship itself broke so many fraternization regulations; bonding would compound them many times over. Guilt, that he'd even think of something so selfish while his people fought and died in war.

A new message notification pinged on his HUD. He brought up his inbox, his spark leaping wildly at the callsign – Ratchet.

<< _I'm on my way_ >> the databurst said in high-caste Protihexi. The glyphs were tagged with markers for anticipation/nervousness, the register of the message deeply intimate. Ratchet had used the pronoun for betrothed mate, fiancé.

Optimus stared at it for almost a minute, then composed a return message. << _I greatly anticipate your arrival._ >> Traditional last-stage courting speech, used to welcome a new mate to one's house.

He strode to the entranceway steps and sat down on the top level. They were really doing this. He folded his hands against his belly, feeling them shake minutely. Breathtaking happiness, crippling anxiousness, warred within him. He wanted so badly for this to go right.

One breem, two. He imagined Ratchet pulling into the residency tower's entranceway, waking the night doormech from a surreptitious recharge. Taking the elevator, or perhaps the service stairwell, up to Optimus' level.

The door beeped.

:: _It's me_ :: Ratchet said, sounding as nervous as Optimus had ever heard him.

Optimus stumbled down the steps, feeling awkward and gawky. He keyed in the security code and the door opened, revealing Ratchet, standing in the middle of the deserted hallway.

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. Their EM fields reached out, commingling easily and eagerly. Ratchet's optics were wide, his servos tucked self-consciously against his abdomen.

“You clean up nicely,” he said at last, smiling.

Optimus found his voice. “Thank you,” he said, stepping out of the way so that Ratchet could enter the apartment. “I— Thank you.”

Ratchet too had gone to a considerable effort to present himself. His armour glistened almost wetly, his whites brilliant and his orange almost supernova. He'd darkened his hands with carbon, and found some talented artist to trace gold wire patterns over his fingers and palms. Optimus found himself unable to look away.

He approached Ratchet, tradition guiding him where initiative failed. He took Ratchet's hands in his, tracing the gold pattern. “You look wonderful, old friend.”

Ratchet smiled, casting his optics down. “I had to tell the doormech I'd been to a friend's celebration. He wanted to know where I'd had the filigree done.”

“I must admit to being curious as well,” said Optimus. He turned and guided Ratchet towards the steps, their servos still joined. “Welcome to my house, beloved. It is but little, yet it will be greatly enriched by your presence.”

Ratchet made the formal reply, a noticeable hitch in his voice. “I do not bring riches or treasures with me, but I hope that together we may make much that is equally precious.”

Optimus' spark throbbed with longing. Ratchet felt it through his field, his own wavelengths swelling in answer. They shared a private smile.

They parted at the top of the stairs, Optimus heading to the kitchen where he'd left the spiced armadine while Ratchet drifted over to the balcony windows. The cloud was as thick as ever. It was a pity that they would not get to see the lunar crossing for themselves.

Optimus returned, offering one empty energon vessel to Ratchet. It was Harmonexi cut crystal, expensive and coveted. He held onto the other himself, for the exchange of energon later in the ceremony.

“Are you ready?” he asked, softly.

Ratchet vented deeply, then met his optics with a determined smile. “Yes, I am.”

Optimus bent slightly, giving him a chaste kiss. “I love you,” he said, drawing back. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“I know,” said Ratchet. “I'm scared, but I want it as well.”

His honesty was almost more reassuring than a simple return of his affections would have been. Optimus looked beyond the pillars at his shrine, waiting for them. Perhaps the regulations might not agree, but he knew that for himself and Ratchet, this was the right choice.

He led them to the altar. The ceremony began.

* * *

Prowl's office was the largest of the Altihexi command suite in dimensions, though in practice a great deal of the space was taken up by hardcopy information and nodes of the local AI.

Optimus shared the scant space in front of the Autobot Executive Officer's desk with Jazz, Mirage, and a tall mech whom he was unfamiliar with.

The stranger was masked and visored, his shoulders several sizes larger than the rest of his frame. His EM field wove complicated patterns over his plating, dipping low in a somewhat depressive manner.

“I'm Chromedome,” he introduced himself, holding out a servo in the standard Southern States greeting. Optimus gripped his wrist, fighting down an ache of deja vu.

Prowl spoke up. “Ratchet is now the only survivor of the original Darkmount retrieval team,” he said prosaically. “Our informant was tortured as well; his spark burnt out late last night. On becoming a deep-cover agent, he signed a waiver allowing the use of mnemosurgery to recover sensitive information should he ever be incapacitated in the line of duty. However, to do so requires the signatures of two members of the Command staff besides that of his immediate superiors. Optimus, I realise that you dislike this particular branch of Special Operations, but I cannot stress enough how important the information this mech could be holding is.”

Optimus glanced at Chromedome, drawing his conclusions. “I would like to see this waiver first.”

Mnemosurgery had its purpose, he was sure. But a mech's memories were his most private possessions, a record of his own unique experience of the world. Even to a dead mech, Optimus was loathe to invade that last private bastion.

Prowl passed him a hardcopy sheet. Evidently he'd anticipated the request.

The agent's name had been Twelvegauge. His handwriting was neat and precise, his horizontal strokes somewhat shaky. Optimus thinned his lips, reading the legalities with practiced fluency. He could find no indication that Twelvegauge had entered the contract with anything less than full understanding.

He passed the hardcopy back to Prowl. “Thank you. I have no objections at this stage.”

“Might help us put together what happened to the rest of the team as well,” Jazz put in from his perch on the end of Prowl's desk. He swung his pedes back and forth, solemn-faced. “So far all we know is that things went just peachy up until they came face to face with a band of 'Cons just outta Mollyn Stay, two wards over from the border. Don't think that they were trackers – likely they'da been far more restrained had that been the case. The sorta things they did to Ratch and Twelvey just aren't consistent with Decepticon rank and file, though.”

“It is looking more and more like they were stricken with plain bad luck,” said Mirage. “I am familiar with Darkmount's regional patrol organization, and outside twenty-four leagues distant of the main fortress there are very few regular patrols, most of which are concentrated in the narrow uplands between the Torus Fracture Zone and the Manganese Range. Mollyn Stay is well within the Fracture Zone, which we had hoped would shield the team's approach.”

“Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?” Chromedome asked. “Keywords, mission directive, that sort of thing?”

Jazz and Prowl shared a look.

“He was deep cover,” Jazz said eventually. “We handle things like that mostly as we see fit. Last Ah spoke to him, he was hoping to look into the Decepticon industrial operations down in the Tagan Heights. They'd been gradually increasing shipments of Cybertronium alloys, the sort you make nuclear shells and spark casings outta.”

“Where were they going?” Optimus said, alarmed.

“East over the Heights,” said Jazz. “Hexima, Triax. Tarn, maybe.”

“Shockwave,” sighed Prowl. “Ultra Magnus has reported no movement from the Tarnaise frontline beyond the usual posturing and theatrics. Tyger Pax and the Central States will need to prepare themselves.”

Optimus closed his optics and vented. “I should go there. They will be wanting support.”

“I advise caution, Optimus.” Prowl leveled a thoughtful gaze at him. “If you do you will be caught between two heavily-contested frontlines, and the only way out will be over the Sea of Rust.”

“I am aware,” Optimus replied sharply, stress making him snippier than usual. He lifted a hand to his temple where a sharp ache dug into the sensory cortex behind his optics. :: _My apologies, Prowl. I do value your judgement._ ::

:: _Thank you_ :: Prowl said smoothly. “Perhaps you should rest a while,” he said aloud. “You remain on leave, after all.”

“Ah believe you've got an appointment with the local shrink,” said Jazz, adding his support to the idea. “Could recharge for a bit before you haveta go in. Alternatively, you could fall asleep right there in the mech's offices.” He grinned unrepentantly at Optimus' recriminating half-glare. “Gotta look after yourself before you can go worrying about the rest of us, friend.”

Optimus sighed, only slightly exaggeratedly. “I stand no chance against the two of you. Primus be thanked that you chose to ally yourselves with us.”

He nodded stiffly to Chromedome and Mirage, and left the room. He closed the door to the audible not-sound of Jazz' stifled chuckles.

* * *

That evening he sat in a large, plush armchair in Rung’s top-floor office, listening to the rain come down through an open louvre tucked beneath the tower eaves.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” Rung began. He smiles as though he was genuinely glad to see Optimus. His field, professionally retracted, radiated grateful honesty. “How are you doing?”

He used an archaic register, respectful without the blunt admission of rank Optimus was used to receiving from his subordinates these days. His large optics glimmered under the soft light, neither searching nor scrutinising.

Optimus shifted his pedes apart, laying both hands on the armrests and squeezing gently.

“We are... managing,” he said, searching for a word and eventually settling on one which implied neither positivity nor outright failure. “I am aware that it will take time and effort to… find our balance again, and that we are only at the beginning of a long journey to do so. It seems too premature to make any further judgement at this stage.”

Rung nodded, accepting his viewpoint. “You are aware that Ratchet will begin therapy with me tomorrow morning?”

Optimus inclined his helm forward. “Yes. It... seems quite soon.”

“Four orn after the fact? Perhaps,” Rung allowed. “There is a requirement that he as the survivor of major trauma undertake at least thirty joor of mandatory counselling before taking up his duties in full capacity. There is however no requirement that he do so now. I merely find that it helps if the option is present.”

“I see.” Optimus relaxed his hands on the armrests, the soft upholstery uncrinkling forgivingly. “Is there anything about the process which I should know?”

Rung gave him a short smile, leaning to the side and retrieving a thin hardcopy from a low-set wall shelf. “Please forgive the low technology level; we work with a great deal of sensitive information in this profession. Once Ratchet and I begin I will be unable to share further details with you without his permission, so for now I would like to give you a basic overview of what is going to happen, what we try to achieve in these situations, and what the process of therapy may entail. The hardcopy contains some basic definitions and concepts which may be useful to you, as well as general tips for dealing with trauma both as a survivor and as a support person. You can take it away with you if you want; Ratchet may find it helpful as well.”

Optimus opened the first page and glanced over the table of contents. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Rung said with a warm pulse of electromagnetics. His comm dropped into Optimus' range, extending a polite ping. :: _Additionally, should either you or Ratchet have any further queries, at any joor, please don't hesitate to comm me._ ::

Optimus subspaced the hardcopy, folding his servos in his lap. “Thank you,” he said again. “I confess I am not overly familiar with our psychological regulations. That they were adopted from those of the Cybertronian External Defence Force is about the extent of my knowledge.”

Rung steepled his digits and leaned forward over his desk. “Yes, the CEDF, with input from the Praetorian Guard. Essentially Ratchet has been stood down on medical grounds, which means that his status is for now dependent upon whoever is assigned temporary Commanding Medical Officer in his stead – likely to be either Pharma, or Proserpina perhaps – and Cuirasse, as his primary surgeon. Once his physical repair is finished, his overall care will be transferred to me, and we will determine whether it would be more beneficial for him to return to work, in either a full or reduced capacity, or to be placed on more indefinite psychological leave.

“Either way, he must attend the aforementioned thirty joor of therapy at some stage. While he will be seeing me tomorrow, this first session is primarily to gauge his current state.” Rung glanced up at Optimus from beneath heavy black optical ridges. “He and I will discuss how to proceed from there; whether he requires extra time to process the events of the past three orns or prefers to feel as though he is doing something constructive about it.”

“I see,” Optimus murmured, filing the explanation away for later reference. His servos returned to the armrests, fingers curling around the overhanging ends.

He glanced out the window, down at the water-blurred shadows of the Altihexi streets below. Night settled its black blanket over the city. Lights flickered on in a civilian apartment block across the main road.

Rung made a small, thoughtful noise. “For now, Optimus, how are you yourself handling things? Is there anything at this point that you would like to know?”

Optimus closed his optics and reset them, forcibly relaxing his vertebral cabling before he gave himself a helmache. “Many things. I want to help Ratchet, however I can – but the fact remains that I have never dealt with anything like this before. I am so afraid of hurting him in my attempts to help.”

“That is entirely understandable,” Rung said softly. “My advice, I suppose, would be to take things as they come. I realise how inhelpful that sounds, but the fact is that we cannot know for certain how best to help our friends and family through tough times. We have to try somehow, but often we must guess at that 'somehow', and sometimes our guesses are wrong. This fact is unfortunately reality.”

He tapped his digits against the desktop, a short staccato rhythm. “However, Optimus, you already know how to deal with errors of judgement.”

Optimus drew himself up, searching for an answer. Rung, however, wasn't waiting for one.

“When you slip up, accept the fact that you did so. You cannot turn back time and take it back, so you must instead learn from it. Accept that your mistake has hurt him, and that however he reacts, he has every right to do so. Apologise to him. Don't do it again. If he allows it, talk to him about what would have been more helpful, what he would have preferred. Communication is important in any relationship, but becomes absolutely essential when dealing with situations such as these.”

Silence inside the office. A blustery wind sprayed the louvres with rain.

Optimus sank back into the chair. The armrests got another anxious squeeze. “I understand,” he said.

“Yes, I know.” Rung smiled.

There was a small, mesh-wrapped ball lying on his desk, in amongst the neat stacks of datapads and model ships. Rung picked it up and rolled it idly between his palms.

“Now, the goal of trauma therapy is to give survivors a basic framework around which they can work at their own pace, the tools with which to look after themselves, and a safe space in which to process their trauma in whichever ways they find most effective. This is a lot of work, and it isn't something which can be done by anyone but the survivor. Our role as therapists and families is therefore to help them and support them, without attempting to make them follow any model of recovery but their own.”

He set the ball down on the table and corralled it with his palms. “This is the thing about recovery from trauma: it is often messy. Unlike physical wounds there are no concrete rules or treatment guidelines to follow; what works well for one survivor may unbalance another person and hinder another’s recovery entirely. Quite often, we find ourselves taking one step forward and several back. There may never be a concrete ending point. Therefore, it becomes less about 'recovery' in the classic sense of the word and more about living our lives as we want to, reconciling that idea with the traumas in our past, and managing the effects that they might have had upon the way we live said lives. Successful recovery is therefore a very vague concept, as you may see.”

Optimus digested the information, picking it over glyph by glyph. “Individuality, then, is something which plays an important role in counselling?”

“Yes,” said Rung. “Of course, every doctor, no matter the field, should keep it in mind, but for those of us dealing with the processor, it is paramount. The processes and paths which we make within our processors are unique to us, our experiences, and ways in which we find it best to deal with situations. Even the most identical of factory-batch preprograms develop wildly different thought pathways. A counselor learns as much from their patient as their patient does from them – or should, hmm.”

Optimus was quiet for a few minutes.

Rung watched him for a while, rolling the ball back and forth on his desk, then spoke. “is there something on your mind?”

Optimus startled. He replayed the question in his HUD to make sure he'd heard right, then organised his thoughts. “I... know Ratchet very well, his cues and tells, the way he looks at the world. Of course I do not know everything about him, and this may well be me overestimating my own abilities, but he seems very different to how he was before the... before. Flatter, perhaps? Less outwardly emotional certainly, and I'd thought that if anything I should prepare for the opposite.”

He recalled the previous day, when Ratchet had refused his offer to talk. It felt... he understood Ratchet's reasoning, certainly! But parts of him champed at the bit, telling the rest that he should be doing more to help, how could he sit around and talk about his own feelings when Ratchet needed so much help?!

Rung frowned at something on his desk. “As you said, we cannot be sure, but it does tie into something I had intended to talk about anyway.” He folded his hands together, expression smoothing over.

“At the moment he is likely in what you might call crisis mode, a reaction to extreme stress which prioritises functionality above all else. This is a survival mechanism buried deep within our base coding, and it allows mecha to… well, to survive, when they physically, situationally or emotionally cannot afford to process the stress at that particular moment in time. It is a different system of operation, perhaps comparable to your battle protocols. It helps us to prioritise targets, such as the achievement of everyday tasks.

“Like your battle protocols, however, it isn’t something which can be extended indefinitely without negative psychological and physiological effect. In order to function, you see, the survivor pushes the stress aside and partitions it away rather than deal with the root cause in any constructive manner. Dealing with the root cause, of course, can be extremely taxing, and for a lot of people it compromises our ability to live our lives as we want or need to. For that reason, it's sometimes more useful to the mech in question to simply delay doing so.”

Optimus frowned. “Battle protocols drop once the battle is over. Shouldn't he be able to come out of it now that...”

“Now that he is no longer in physical danger, you mean?” Rung asked.

Optimus frowned. The words were more or less accurate, but the combination of them sounded wrong somehow.

Rung nodded sympathetically, as though he knew what Optimus was thinking. “'Crisis' covers many possible vectors. It could mean physical trial; it could refer to internalised prejudice against, to quote a mech I knew a long time ago, 'the sort of mech this happens to'. It might be a case of feeling as though there are too many things to process, too much and too huge, and feeling helpless to even start. Without talking to him I can't begin to guess which it might be.”

He made a thoughtful expression and his optics brightened. “Have you and he done much together since he was discharged from the hospital?”

Optimus shook his helm. “We have recharged together every night, but he often seeks solitude. I try not to force him into togetherness. He has always needed his space.”

“And you? What are your needs in this situation?”

“Not important,” Optimus said immediately. He held back a wince – they sounded dismissive, almost arrogant. “Rather, I mean that I don't want to overstep my boundaries, that I am not the one who matters in this situation, and I don't want to take away from Ratchet's time and resources when he needs them so much.”

“Spoken very like you,” said Rung, almost wryly. “Optimus, I disagree. You and Ratchet are bondmates. Your sparks are one and the same. You are very much central to this situation.”

He held up a hand, forestalling Optimus' argument. “Here is a question for you. When a medic treats a patient for, hm, something like a virus, or an aid worker rescues a downcast mech from starvation – do you think that either of those mecha want for their rescuers to become ill from the same? Do you think that Ratchet, having had his needs and rights disregarded for the sake of his attackers' wants, intends for you to go through what he has done?”

“It is hardly the same situation,” Optimus argued, frowning. “The Decepticons took without regard for his own personhood, as if he was a toy.”

“Yes,” said Rung. “The situation is incomparable. However, the sentiment is the same, and I suspect that if you talked to Ratchet, he would agree with me. You are his bondmate. When you joined your sparks together, you each took one another into your highest tiers of identity; you are quite literally part of one another. Therefore, keeping your needs met is very much going to be a part of providing for Ratchet's recovery. Do you understand?”

Optimus brought his hands to his lap and clasped them together. “I... think so.”

Rung watched him for a further moment, then smiled. “Not many mecha have your capacity for empathy, and although that is often a strength of yours, you will need to be careful not to overempathise. Avoid the urge to dismiss yourself. None of those who care for you want you to make yourself sick, ignoring your own basic needs and wants.”

“I understand.” Optimus vented heavily, offlining his optics. “It... must hurt to see me do that.”

“I would imagine it does,” said Rung. “In any case, I believe that that is everything I wanted to cover. Do you have any more questions?”

Optimus searched his higher thought protocols. “I don't believe so. Thank you very much.”

“You are much welcome,” said Rung, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mother is a draughtsman and her enthusiasm for architecture has rubbed off on me so damn much XD I am considering drawing Optimus' apartment, because it looks so goddamn gorgeous in my mind <3
> 
> Also, I haven't got the first clue about counselling beyond what I've read in the course of researching for this fic, so any mistakes there are mine entirely and feel free to point them out.


	7. Chapter 7

...

_when the world has fallen out from under me_   
_i'll be found in you, still standing_   
_when the sky rolls up and mountains fall on the need_   
_when time and space are through_   
_i'll be found in you_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

  
Ratchet leant back on his remaining arm and shuffled awkwardly onto the medical examination berth. 

“I can't wait until this is over,” he muttered, lowering himself to the berth. 

Whether he referred to the appointment itself or the entire kindling, Optimus could not guess. He touched the back of Ratchet's hand, sending a warm pulse of encouragement over their bond. “Perhaps we can get some energon afterwards, or go for a walk.”

The exam room was in the south wing of the hospital, on the tenth-floor maternity ward. The walls were painted warm pinks and oranges rather than the clinical steel of everywhere else, and late morning sun streamed in through the half-shuttered windows, casting barred patterns on the floor. It was pleasantly unlike any of the other hospital rooms which they had visited thus far.

Ratchet turned his servo over and gave Optimus' hand a nervous squeeze. “I'd like that.”

The hallway door slid open with a smooth hum of mechanisms. Cuirasse strode in, burdened by a stack of datapads. 

“I apologise for our lateness,” she said, placing the datapads on the room's small datanet workstation. “The lower floors are busy today.”

Optimus acknowledged her apology, but his attention had been stolen by the smaller mech whom had followed her into the room.

She stood in the long shadows by the closing door, her EM field held politely close to her frame in the northeastern fashion. Her shoulders were heavy and curved to accommodate four arms, with a further two slender limbs, much longer than the others, rose out of her back and draped down like wings.

Optimus frowned, but Ratchet pushed himself straight upright, antenna twitching in rigid attentiveness.

“Cogwheel?”

The small mech smiled. She had eight green optics, and all of them glowed with good humour. “I was wondering whether you would remember me,” she said, approaching him. “It's been a long time, Ratchet.”

“Far too long.” Ratchet offered her his hand. “Datanet communication is all well and good, but I wasn't even aware that you were in Altihex.”

She placed her servo palm-down against his and tapped the knuckles of her other against her slim chest. “I wasn't, up until two orns ago. There was a dipygia case down in Crystal City, and the antenatal warden there called in a few favours.”

Interest flared in Ratchet's field as he returned the gesture. “Which category?”

“Equilateral, offset to the posterior by about forty degrees. One of the neatest manifestations I've ever seen, almost centaurian in form.” Cogwheel took a pair of datapads from Cuirasse's pile. The second pair of arms unfolded from her sides and began to flick through the files. “I took detailed notes if you'd like to read them later on. Arachne knows I could do with a structural specialist's point of view.”

“I've got nothing but time to fill in at the moment,” said Ratchet. “I'd welcome the distraction.”

Cogwheel nodded solemnly. “I'll send them to you as soon as I get back to the hotel tonight.” 

She glanced over his shoulder, straight at Optimus. Her optics widened, the outer four shuttering rapidly, and her field flared in the sort of recognition Optimus was beginning to tire of, that of someone familiar with the position of Prime but not the mech whom occupied it. “Ratchet, I wasn't aware that you knew Optimus Prime in anything more than a professional capacity.”

Ratchet grimaced, a flicker of embarrassment drifting through his EM field. “I was getting to it.” He turned to Optimus. “This is Cogwheel. We were roommates at the Academy of Medical Mechanics in Protihex. Classmates for a while, as well, but then she went into developmental cybiology and I carried on in structural mechanics.” Back to Cogwheel, and his field opened up, begging understanding. “Cogwheel, Optimus and I are bonded. I told you about Orion Pax, back before the war? This is him.” 

Cogwheel stared at them for a while. Slowly, she nodded her helm, and her field reached out in warm sympathy. “Congratulations,” she said, smiling. 

Cuirasse, whom had watched the reunion with gratified surprise on her narrow face, strode around the med-berth to Optimus' side. “Cogwheel is one of the most well-known gestational specialists in the northeast. I'm a structural mechanic by specialisation, which means that while I'm presiding over Ratchet's physical recovery I'm not qualified to look after his kindling cycle.”

Enlightenment dawned in Ratchet's field. “You never said you were going right to the top of the field.”

Cogwheel chuckled. “Flatterer. I admit I was surprised to receive a request for a simple case of hypoumbilicus, but when I heard the patient's name I came right away.”

Ratchet's entire field went unexpectedly dark. “It's not quite that simple,” he said.

Optimus looked from medic to medic, searching for clues. “Might someone explain to me the problem?” he asked after a moment, taking hold of Ratchet's servo in an effort to comfort him. “I am listening, but you might as well be speaking in Old Centralian for all I understand it.”

Cuirasse and Cogwheel both looked to Ratchet, as if for permission.

Ratchet vented deeply. “I have a condition called delayed-onset hypoumbilicus,” he said, squeezing Optimus' servo. “It automatically makes any kindling I choose to go through with high-risk. Essentially, the umbilicus, the support networks that supply the newling frame with minerals and keep it developing the way it ought to, doesn't form properly. The risk is that the frame doesn't develop enough to support the newspark once it detaches from the parent spark, thus causing the newspark's dissolution and a late-term miscarriage.”

Cogwheel nodded, her optics narrowing at the files on the datapad screens. “Hence my presence. If you don't mind, Ratchet, I'd like to do a comprehensive examination of my own. The local specialist's work is good, but things can change quite rapidly during the early stages of a kindling and even if they haven't, it would be good to confirm her results.”

Ratchet nodded mutely.

The shadow of a frown appeared on the Arachnicon's face, but she diplomatically refrained from commenting. 

Cuirasse and Optimus helped Ratchet to lie back against the medberth, raising the headrest so that he could comfortably lay his helm on it. Cogwheel assembled a set of tools and scanners, then washed her four primary hands and dried them under a hot air blaster.

Cuirasse took another datapad from the pile and opened a new file. “Patient, Autobot Identification Number 682-99457, designation Ratchet. Well-born, attained majority at twenty-eight lunar cycles. Twenty-two thousand eight-four-six vorn of age. Heavy Standard frame, Boreal subtype, true coefficient system configuration.”

“Reproductive history?” asked Cogwheel, taking up a bulky handheld scanner. “Ratchet, could you open your left ventral network panel?”

“No children,” Cuirasse reported as Ratchet obeyed. “Patient reported persistent, irregular and sometimes severe cramps from embodiment, was prescribed respectively Blackdale and Infraguard brand energy sinks, silicon intragenerative contraceptives and finally exploratory surgery in order to treat them, all of which failed. Nineteen ghost kindles from eight hundred to twelve thousand vorn of age, two late-term miscarriages at eleven thousand and fifteen thousand. Hypoumbilicus diagnosed shortly afterwards. Current kindle is the result of budding; gestational age eight quartexes and three orn.”

Optimus knelt by the berth, tucking his pedes out of the way of the medics and gently squeezing Ratchet's servo. Ratchet's optics flickered across to him, then cut away, his EM field skittish.

He hadn't known about the previous miscarriages. Ratchet hadn't seen fit to tell him and Optimus would respect that, but still a part of him wondered why his bondmate would keep it a secret. 

:: _What is a ghost kindle?_ :: he asked instead, over short-range comms. His own education in sexual and reproductive health had been narrow of breadth and supremely unhelpful, amounting more or less to 'Don't do it'. He wondered sometimes whether it had been helpful to any one of his tutors, or if they, like him, had had to figure things out on the fly. (Perhaps that was what had informed their lessons, come to think of it.)

Ratchet looked back at him, and smiled gratefully, if tiredly. Evidently he'd been expecting a different question.

:: _It can be a kindle that doesn't stick, or a catalytic entity that only half forms, or an overload without a catalytic reaction that tricks the generative components into coming to life for an orn or two, thus giving the mech concerned a false positive. Nine times out of ten it fades before they figure out anything is amiss, but their gestational histories will record the blip, and most mecha that interface with their valves will have at least one or two over the course of their lives. It's one of the first things that gets looked at if you seek treatment for fertility issues, or you have a miscarriage. A higher number is generally indicative of issues with some part of one's generative components._ ::

Cogwheel ran a series of increasingly involved scans, plugging more and more devices into Ratchet's abdomen. “Twelve for twelve for the main lines, running between eighty-five and eighty-nine percent efficiency. Chamber expansion is up to thirty-two percent. How have you been for nausea and expansion cramps, Ratchet?”

“Better than last time,” said Ratchet. He glanced at Optimus, his expression measuring. “I'd be purging most orns, but it comes and goes in a manageable manner. The cramps are maybe a four out of ten.”

“Hmm,” said Cogwheel. She frowned down at the device in her primary hands. “I'm getting a slight discrepancy between your system blueprints and my results.”

“Where?” Cuirasse peered over her shoulder. 

“Here.” Cogwheel motioned to something on the screen. “It's subtle; I almost missed it beneath the electrical map. Ratchet, we might need to perform an internal ultrasound.”

Optimus felt Ratchet's EM field dip and shudder, unspoken reluctance. “What's wrong?”

Cogwheel disconnected a handful of the cords from Ratchet's systems. “I'm not certain yet. I'd guess dysmorphia of the generative chamber in some form, but it must be extremely well-hidden if exploratory surgery failed to find it. Was the procedure laparoscopic or transcervical?”

“Transcervical.” Ratchet stared up at the panelled ceiling. “The surgeon in charge wanted to try a laparoscopic procedure afterwards, but I decided that the cramps weren't severe enough to warrant the expenses. I just took painkiller chips and limited myself to paperwork on the orns when they got particularly bad.”

Cogwheel's frown grew deeper. “A gamma scan then, perhaps. What I'm seeing is a shadow on the rear wall of your gestative chamber, just behind the biphase arms. It's likely a transcervical scan wouldn't be able to penetrate the rear wall of the chamber, but the walls of your valve are significantly less thick and at this stage of gestation the chamber is tilted slightly forward anyway, allowing for an easy scan of the area concerned.”

There was a silence as the medics waited for Ratchet to respond. He had gone very still at the mention of internal examination, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he wrestled with his thoughts.

Cogwheel hadn't been told the full circumstances behind his kindling. She didn't know about the rape. Whether that would have changed her suggestion, Optimus didn't know. But Ratchet's reaction, informed by both his experiences and his medical knowledge, seemed to suggest that it wouldn't have mattered either way.

Optimus' internal comms chirped. :: _I don't want anyone to touch me there_ :: Ratchet said, :: _but if it means I don't have to lose another baby, it has to be worth it._ ::

Optimus pushed love and reassurance through their bond, resting a gentle hand on Ratchet's shoulder. :: _It's your choice, old friend. Remember that I'm here to support you._ ::

“Do you think it has a high likelihood of having contributed towards my... difficulties?” Ratchet asked, the pause as he searched for a word to describe his miscarriages small and subtle.

Cogwheel made a thoughtful hum. “It really depends on what it is. Certain forms of dysmorphia could certainly cause problems when interacting with your existing condition. The worst-case scenario is a fissure in the chamber wall; best-case is probably a cyst. The former is life-threatening and practically guarantees miscarriage, the latter simply uncomfortable and maybe, maybe a potential cause of problems. Either way, I would highly advise we diagnose it before you continue much farther with this kindling.” 

“Then we should do so,” Ratchet asserted. His voice was steady, but his spark pulsed rapidly, high-frequency notes drifting through his EM field.

Cogwheel gave him a long, measuring look. “You're certain, Ratchet? It doesn't have to be today.”

“Yes!” he snapped. “I'm going to do everything I can to make sure this one _survives_.”

She opened her mouth, but bit back whatever she'd been planning to say. “Okay. It you feel any discomfort, anything at all, you speak up as soon as it happens – all right? Cuirasse, please get the stirrups. Ratchet, you'd like your mate to stay in the room?”

A large part of Optimus was gratified by the speed with which Ratchet said, “Yes, I would.” 

The medics adjusted the berth, folding the end down and lifting Ratchet's legs onto stands which caught his knees and held his thighs apart. Ratchet shuttered his optics and tightened his grip on Optimus' hand.

“Would you like to open your panel yourself, or prefer us to pop it with medical protocols?” Cuirasse asked, as Cogwheel took up a tool Optimus vaguely recognised as a speculum and covered it with generous amounts of lubricant.

They were giving Ratchet as much control over the procedure as they possibly could, Optimus realised. Cuirasse's field was drawn professionally flat, but her dimply lit optics and faint frown gave away her worries. Cogwheel was suspicious; that much he could tell. 

“I'll do it,” Ratchet grunted. There was a moment, and Optimus heard the achingly familiar sound of his bondmate's valve panel folding away.

He dropped his helm and pressed a short kiss to Ratchet's shoulder. I'm here, he sent, pushing his presence through the bond.

Ratchet's lips moved minutely. Counting, an effort to take his mind off what was happening.

Cuirasse's ident glyph blinked over a short message that suddenly arrived in Optimus' inbox. :: _He's doing better than I'd expected._ ::

:: _That is good._ :: Optimus glanced along the berth to Cogwheel, whose expression was gradually clearing of worry. :: Have you got results yet? ::

:: _Well, it's not a fissure._ :: Cuirasse tagged the end of the message with a smiley emote and a glyph of relief. :: _I'm not exactly sure what I'm seeing, to be honest. I'd say a partly-detached cyst, which appears to be pressing against several of his internal abdominal stays and therefore is a likely contributor to those cramps of his._ ::

That was another thing Optimus hadn't known about before today. He resolved to speak to Ratchet about the ills of keeping everything to himself, though not without a small flash of rueful awareness that he wasn't exactly one to talk.

“All right, we're done.” Cogwheel removed the instruments and put them aside. “You can close up now, Ratchet.”

Ratchet did so with a deep vent of relief.

“The good news is this – it's not a fissure,” Cogwheel continued, as she and Cuirasse returned the berth to its former position. Ratchet pressed his legs together sparkbreakingly quickly. “It's also not a cyst, or anything so easily dealt with.”

She picked up her former datapads and moved around the end of the berth, kneeling beside Optimus. She turned the pad so that he and Ratchet could see the screen the right way up, and brought up a complex diagram of a mech's internals.

“This is the basic blueprint for someone of Ratchet's frametype and system configuration. Here are the generative systems – interface components, cervical valve, gestation chamber, umbilicus and endometrial mass, and up the top here the duct the newspark travels down during separation.” She swapped the image out. “This is Ratchet's blueprint. Pretty much the same at first glance.”

Ratchet pointed at a faint shadow at the lower part of his gestation chamber. “That wasn't on the first one.”

Cogwheel nodded. “Watch this.” She converted the blueprint to 3D, turning it forty-five degrees. The shadow disappeared.

Ratchet blinked. “It's a blip?”

Optimus frowned. “Explain, please.”

“A very technical term for a blueprint error that gets spotted and corrected sometime during the construction of a cold-construct's frame,” said Ratchet with a flash of dry humour. “Sometimes the blueprint doesn't get edited properly, and you spend hours looking for an anomaly that isn't actually there.”

“That's not quite the case here, unfortunately.” Cogwheel brought up a new picture, and this time it was immediately clear that something was not quite right. “This is Ratchet's lower abdominal cavity, looking up past his terminal node cluster here—” she pointed out the bright white patch near the bottom of the screen— “at the small of his back. This curve here is the edge of his gestation chamber; you can see how much it has expanded already. And this big dark thing right between them is what's causing all the trouble.”

Ratchet stared at the indistinct blob on the screen. “What is it?”

“I think it's a second gestation chamber,” said Cogwheel.

Optimus took his optics off the screen long enough to give her an incredulous look. Ratchet and Cuirasse, he noticed, were doing the same thing.

“I'm cold-constructed,” Ratchet said, shaking his helm. “ _Designed._ One of four in my batch. How would something like that be overlooked for so long?”

Cogwheel tapped the screen. “Thanks to the things that are missing from this scan. Stays, cables, protomass. Generative components are one of the parts of the cold-construction process that can't be machine-tooled due to their high protomass content. We grow them in vats, with artificially fostered protomass and round-the-clock monitoring. Maybe there was a new employee on watch, maybe it was just well-hidden to start with, but my guess is that by the time the blip in your blueprint was discovered, the physical manifestation had already been partly constructed. Removal of the blip would have halted its construction, but what was already there would have remained unless physically removed. If, due to the parts already constructed, it hadn't been immediately obvious that anything was physically out of the ordinary, I doubt that anyone would have noticed later on.”

“Hence why it wasn't in your medical history,” Cuirasse murmured. 

Ratchet vented slowly. “Will it have any effect on my ability to carry?”

Cogwheel pursed her lips. “It will, but we have very little data as a species on this sort of thing. Most likely, it will put added strain on your systems as your sparkling grows. It may restrict the amount of expansion your components are able to achieve, which thanks to your medical upgrades is already limited. It would be major surgery to attempt to fix it – certainly possible, but not while you're carrying.”

“It's not life-threatening, though?”

Cogwheel hesitated before answering. “For you? I don't think so. It will likely come with an added risk of miscarriage, though.”

“Of course,” said Ratchet. His expression went flat, his mouth drawing down at the corners. “Is there anything else I should know?”

Cogwheel spun the datapad around. She tapped the screen with the stylus, and stood. “At the moment, I don't believe so. Is there anything else you want to know?”

Ratchet thought for a while. “I want a copy of the scans,” he said at length, and squeezed Optimus' servo. “Anything I can see her in.”

Cogwheel nodded, and smiled. “It's the least we can do.”

* * *

Altihex was located on the western border of the Tagan Heights, tucked into the hanging point of a valley more than four leagues above the planetary ground standard.

The prevailing winds blew east off the open expanse of the Sea of Rust, forcing moist air across the narrow plains east of the Sea and up onto the high plateaux of the Heights. As the air rose, it cooled; the moisture it carried was forced to condense into clouds, rain, and finally snow.

Optimus and Ratchet were halfway through the Fifth Street crystal park when the first clouds blew into the valley. The sun faded, slowly at first, and the air temperature dropped sharply, twenty degrees in ten minutes.

Ratchet laughed as the first frozen flakes drifted down out of the sky past his face. “We should find shelter, Optimus.”

“I've never seen snow like this before,” Optimus said. He looked around with the eagerness of a first experience, but let Ratchet lead him through the elaborate crystal growths and out onto the street. “Iacon doesn't really compare.”

“Iacon's too big,” Ratchet sniffed. “It falls in clumps and melts as soon as it gets between the towers, or the polar storms freeze you inside and by the time it's safe to go out they've frozen together in dirty drifts. You need the smaller, higher-altitude cities.”

A gust of wind made snow swirl dizzyingly around them. Ratchet stumbled. Optimus instinctively looped his arm around Ratchet's shoulders and steered him into the shelter of a subway stairwell.

Only once they were into the shadowy, gaping maw of the stairwell did he recognise the thick, nauseous terror pouring out of Ratchet's EM field.

He let go on automatic, stepping back. “Ratchet?” he asked, furling his plating, instinctively hunching his shoulders to make himself less threatening. “What's wrong?”

Ratchet shuddered, mouth opening, gasping through his secondary intakes. He reached out a shaking hand and fell against the stairwell wall, hardly able to support his own weight. “Optimus,” he said, his voice faint.

Optimus crouched, holding his hands out as if in an offering, ready to catch Ratchet if he fell. “Ratchet? Can you hear me?”

Ratchet blinked rapidly. He shook his helm and reset his optics, but the look in them was distant, as if he was seeing a place far away. A bombed-out church in the Polyhexi hinterlands, perhaps.

“It's all right, Ratchet,” Optimus said, pitching his voice low and drawing out the terminal vowels in a calming croon. “I'm here. Can you hear me, Ratchet?”

“Optimus?” Ratchet's voice was small, shaky. He reset his optics again, refocused them in the gloom. He slid down the wall and his aft hit the floor. He braced his servo against the ground and raked his fingers across, grounding himself.

Optimus kept talking to him, the words less important than the tone he used, trying to coax Ratchet's conscious mind back from wherever it had gone. It took a few minutes, but soon Ratchet's optics focused on his and the agonised relief in them almost broke Optimus' spark.

“What happened?” Optimus asked. “Are you feeling better now?”

Ratchet licked his lips and shook his helm again. “I... I don't know. Something reminded me. I felt—” he cut himself off, and his hand went to the stump of his shoulder. “I think you touched me here. I just remember... and then it was like I was back there. Couldn't really see, but it hurt like then.”

“I am sorry,” Optimus said. He reached out tentatively with his field. Ratchet's still echoed with remembered pain and fear, but it was duller than it had been. 

Ratchet pressed his knees together and drew them up to his chest, looping his remaining arm around them. He vented audibly. “Just... let me stay here for a moment? I feel sick.”

“Take as long as you need,” Optimus said. He shuffled a little closer, and it must have looked ridiculous to Ratchet, long legs and arms tangling at every opportunity, but he needed to be closer. Not quite close enough to touch – that didn't seem like a good idea – but close enough that their fields meshed and he could comfort Ratchet and protect him from the world around.

Ratchet sat still for a long time, but eventually lost his battle with his fuel tank. He gagged, tipping forward on his pedes and grabbing for Optimus. Figuring that that was as good as an invitation, Optimus held him up while he purged down the middle of the stairwell.

Ratchet dragged in a couple of deep, harsh vents and stubbornly pushed himself upright. “I hope there wasn't anyone underneath that,” he said. The dry tone almost disguised the shudder still apparent in his voice. “Let's go home.”

They took the underground rails into the central station, and switched routes to one that passed the closest to their residential tower. Optimus hadn't had reason to take the rails in a very long time – not since before he'd Ascended. A few of their fellow passengers recognised him, and stared at him for almost the whole journey. Consequently, not many paid attention to the one-armed orange and white mech who rode silently by his side.

The apartment door clicked shut behind him.

He watched Ratchet climb the entryway stairs. The memory came unbidden into his processor of their bonding night, the warm lamplight shining off Ratchet's plating, his orange fiery and his whites gleaming. It was a while ago now, but he would never forget it. 

Despite everything, happiness swelled in his spark. He watched Ratchet turn around at the top of the stairs and frown at him as if to ask what he was doing down there. 

He smiled, and climbed up to join his bondmate.

It was still early in the evening, though the snowy sky outside the apartment was dark and wild. Ratchet refused a cup of energon when offered, but when Optimus turned around again he'd found the container of dry oxide crackers Optimus habitually kept in the top shelves.

They ended up curled together on the couch, watching an old Golden Age movie. The plot was ridiculous – Ratchet ended up shouting at the characters on multiple occasions to just sit down and talk things out, fraggit, it would solve everything! – but the special effects were beautiful and the Praxian Towers setting gave them both a terrible case of nostalgia. 

When it was over, Ratchet turned himself over and pressed himself close against Optimus' chest. Optimus wrapped his arms around Ratchet's waist, careful not to touch the stump of his shoulder that had caused such a harsh reaction earlier.

They held themselves in silence for a long while. It was a comfortable silence, full of warmth and love and companionship. The memories were there and they would never fully go away, but for once they did not rule.

Ratchet tucked his helm in against the curve of Optimus' neck, and spoke. “I missed this.”

“As did I,” Optimus murmured. He stroked his thumb down the curve of Ratchet's back, an intimate touch couched in comfort rather than desire. 

Although there was some of that too, according to their fields. Warmth licked along Optimus' sides, following the slow progress of Ratchet's servo up to his shoulder.

“How do you feel?” he asked, cupping his palms over Ratchet's back. “Not in general, but now – about us.”

Ratchet worked his servo between Optimus' side and the back of the couch, propping himself up. He gave him a considering look for a moment, then quickly kissed him.

“A lot of different ways,” he said, visibly testing each word for veracity before he spoke it. “I'm getting better at figuring out what I want and when and how I want it, but... I'm not quite there yet.”

He was running hot; his frame beneath Optimus' hands was tangibly warm and tantalisingly close. He chuckled softly, and the faint movement of their frames together sent tingles through Optimus' neural net.

Ratchet sighed through his lateral vents. “Doing this, part of me doesn't want to be here. It's a small part at the moment, but it's usually a lot bigger, and I'm not going to be able to ignore it for long. I want to keep going and see where this takes us, but... I'm afraid of making it harder on myself.”

“Don't push yourself,” Optimus advised. A large part of him wanted to say the opposite, recognising with no small relief the attraction circling through him for the mech in his arms. In the quartexes since Ratchet's rescue he had been terrified that it had changed the dynamic of their relationship entirely. To know that the element of their shared attraction – and especially that Ratchet still felt it of him – still existed, was comforting. 

Ratchet's lips quirked up at the corners in a tiny smile. “I know. At least, not if I don't think it has a good chance of working out all right.”

Optimus returned the smile. “I would expect no less of you, old friend.”

Ratchet kissed him again, longer this time. When they parted, he wriggled off of Optimus and off the couch, looking to their berthroom door. 

“Berth, I think,” he said. Tiredness crept into the edges of his EM field. “It's been a long orn.”

Optimus attempted to sit up. It took a couple of tries – apparently he'd used up more of his energy than he'd thought. “I may join you. It seems like a tempting prospect.”

Ratchet laughed, and disappeared through the door. His voice floated out into the living room. “Don't be too long. I want to fall asleep next to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cogwheel is borrowed from the Covenant of Primus and I love her to bits. <3 Arachne is the Arachnicons' primary deity, a goddess who wove the world out of her webs, and also the title of their queen.


	8. Chapter 8

_..._

_you who weep now will laugh again_   
_oh, you lonely be lonely no more_

...

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

Drifts of snow sat piled in the corners of the outdoors practice yards, glimmering wetly under a frosty blue sky. The exvents rushing periodically from Optimus' dorsal ventilators turned white in the cold mountain air.

He transformed his right forearm into a short sword and met Ironhide's forward rush with a calculated block and turn, deflecting the impact rather than meeting it head-on. Ironhide turned with him, locking blades. The bodyguard kicked in the same movement, and pain blossomed where his pede had hit just below Optimus' knee hydraulics.

Optimus freed his blade and stepped quickly backward. He had a longer range than Ironhide, and if he could just keep within that narrow band beyond Ironhide's reach but still within his own, he would be all but guaranteed a victory.

That was a big _if_ , however.

Ironhide moved to the left. Optimus echoed the movement, careful to keep his proximity systems trained on the limits of the training yard. Was that a feint?

He tracked the movements of Ironhide's pedes and EM field for clues. Ironhide, an old and canny fighter, knew the trick about watching your enemy's optics. He'd passed it on to Optimus himself, then whipped his aft every orn for the next two lunar cycles until Optimus had figured out that he was relying not on sight but on proximity to plan his course of attack, and that he wasn't quite good enough at controlling his EM field to prevent the infinitesimal shifts that gave away his intent microseconds before his frame began to move.

There. A flicker, further left.

Optimus went right and turned, lunging forward before Ironhide could recover his poise. His bodyguard was forced to block with his right hand. Optimus bore down, forcing the mistake, and smashed his fist into Ironhide's unguarded side.

They parted, Ironhide holding a hand to his side and wincing, Optimus massaging his knuckles. Ironhide was aptly named.

“Not bad,” his bodyguard allowed. “Yeh're still not initiating, but yeh're gettin' better at readin' into attacks. Ah wish yeh'd be a bit more proactive, though.”

Optimus thinned his lips. Attacking was not in his nature, and he'd struggled to get over the novice's fear of striking his sparring partner. He was afraid that he'd never become entirely comfortable with initiating violence. Together with his natural inclination towards caution, that fear was holding him back.

Ironhide's various combat lessons were at this stage a formality. Fortunately, he did not have to fight on the front lines. At spark he was still the pacifistic archivist from Iacon's Hall of Records; they would have eaten him alive.

Optimus shook his servo, and the last of the prickling numbness disappeared from his neural net. “Shall we go again?”

Ironhide rolled his head from side to side; his neck struts popped. “This time I want yeh to make the first move. Don't think, just attack.”

Optimus hesitated.

“I said don't think, slaggit!” the old soldier barked. “Just do it!”

Pressure threatened to freeze Optimus' joints. He forced himself to move, loping forward.   
Ironhide stood square, pedes planted well apart and arms in front of his chest. It was a solid stance; experience told Optimus he had little chance of wearing him down.

He slowed just out of Ironhide's range, and lunged forward, sword outstretched, putting all of his weight behind the strike.

Ironhide blocked, deflecting the blow. In a smooth continuation of the movement he stepped forward in under Optimus' chest, and sent him sailing over his shoulder.

The world whirled around Optimus. The ground slammed up beneath his back, knocking his ventilator fans askew. He coughed and forced them into working order, gathering his splayed limbs.

“Better, but not quite,” Ironhide said happily. “Yeh mighta been onto somethin' if I was a bit bigger.”

Optimus pushed himself into a sitting position. He'd come down with substantial force onto his smokestacks. He gingerly felt down the length of both in turn, searching for the physical manifestation of the dull ache that dug into his subdural mass where they came out of his frame.

Ironhide gave him a considering look, planting his fists against his hips and turning his helm to look at Optimus through his better optic. “What Ah should do is get yeh to face Chromia, next time we go up to Iacon. That'd give me a better indication o' how yeh might go against another fighter. Yeh really shouldn't be fightin' just me all the time.”

Optimus' fingertips came up against a loose fitting near the base of his right stack. His neural net flared dull pain up into his neck; an orange damage notification fitted itself into the side of his HUD.

Ironhide offered him a hand. “Need help up?”

Optimus focused on him with effort. “My apologies,” he said, refusing politely. “I'm a little distracted today.”

Ironhide snorted. “Ah can see that. Come on, let's get yeh in to the list medic. He can look at that smokestack for yeh.”

Optimus stood. He felt a little battered, but it was nothing out of the ordinary for the end of a session with Ironhide.

“You will get to see Chromia a little earlier than planned,” he said, as they crossed the yard in the direction of the list medic's office. “In six orn Jazz and I will be heading to Meridia and the First City. I cannot share the details—” to which Ironhide huffed goodnaturedly, having expected nothing less— “but afterward, we will continue on to Iacon to rendezvous with Elita and the Northern Corps.” This included Chromia, a regional commander under Ultra Magnus' purview.

“And Ratchet?” asked Ironhide, reading between the lines. “Might be good for him to get out of Altihex.”

Optimus nodded. “That is my thought, although I have not asked him yet.”

Ratchet had finally had his arm reattached just over a quartex ago. Cuirasse having declared him physically fit to return to work (a reduced workload, of course, with respect to his condition), he and Rung had decided that preventing him from fulfilling his medical duties in the name of preserving his mental health would have been counterproductive. Medicine was Ratchet's calling, the function which was written into every line of his coding and every strut of his frame. He'd gone stir-crazy within the confines of Optimus' apartment; it would have been cruel to keep him shut up in there any longer, without purpose or responsibility.

He did not think it wise to take Ratchet to the Centralian states, and Cuirasse had agreed when he had brought the possibility to her notice. At a full lunar cycle into his pregnancy, Ratchet had begun to suffer from expansion cramps alongside those symptomatic of his physical dysmorphia; as the sparkling's frame construction forced his gestative chamber to expand, the pains had only become harsher and more frequent. Travel would more than likely aggravate the discomfort.

“If he agrees,” he told Ironhide, “I'd like to send him straight to Iacon. There's no reason to drag him all around Centralia in his condition.”

Ironhide stumped ahead to pull open the list medic's door. “Sendin' him back into the' Senate's clutches could be a different sort of risky without yeh there to interfere on his behalf. Elita'll be around, but the politicans won't've been happy that yeh bonded a tier-three mech.”

A surge of protective fury washed through Optimus' emotional cortex. “I will impress upon them that to do anything untoward to Ratchet will be the last mistake they ever make.”

Ironhide patted his shoulder. “Ah don't doubt it.”

The memory of the purges and trials held for the mecha complicit in conceiving of and planning the bombing raids that had wiped out the neutral state of Vos at the beginning of the war was still recent. Optimus hoped that they would be enough to dissuade any revolutionary takers within the current Senate.

The list medic emerged from his brightly-lit office. Optimus surrendered himself to his mercies.

Knowledge of his bonding to Ratchet was still limited, at least. There were rumours among the Altihexi rank and file, fueled by their cohabiting, but there had been no official statement from either the Autobot command cohort or the Primacy. Those among the political circuit likely knew, or thought they did; it had been shared with the Senate's military tribunal as need-to-know information, and Optimus was not naïve enough to think that all of those involved (alpha- and beta-ranked Towersmecha for the most part, notorious gossips) had kept the secret to themselves.

He'd asked Mirage his opinion shortly before the noble had left on a Special Ops mission of unspecified detail. Mirage, the scion of one of Iacon's most noble clans, had often proven invaluable in providing a view into the world of the highest nobility.

He had given Optimus a long, measured look, and replied, “A secret kept is a weapon you level at your own spark. At your own peril do you assume that yours are the only hands upon its trigger. The only defense is to relinquish it. Find what precedent you can – there is nothing we respect more than history and tradition – and tell your secret to the world. Take ownership of it; act as if it is your Primus-given right, and few will oppose you in the claiming.”

Optimus knew that he had little choice in the matter. The only question was not if, but when.

The medic detached the outer vent of his smokestacks from his back, leaving Optimus' primary ventilator mechanisms uncomfortably bare. “When was the last time you had your filters changed?” he asked. “These are quite filthy.”

“I am almost due for my regular change,” said Optimus. “I cannot say that I am surprised.”

He narrowed his optics as the medic loosened his filters, his HUD filling with vent-obstruction notifications, and rerouted his ventilation through his secondary systems.

“I can change them now if you'd like,” the medic offered. “You've knocked a few fittings loose in here; it would not take me much longer to do a filter change while I'm at it.”

Optimus was not due back in the command cohort's offices for another quarter-joor. He accepted the offer with a grateful smile.

* * *

Prowl met him in the corridor just outside his office door. “Optimus, I need to speak with you.”

Optimus pinged the lock with his personal ident code and pulled the door open. “Certainly. Would you like to come in?”

The XO followed him in. “Lock the door, if you will. Mirage sent us a preliminary report last night.”

Optimus activated the room's various security systems. A thin secondary blast sheet covered the closed door; the airwaves began to shrill with a signal that would (hopefully) scramble any wireless communications to the outside world. He muted his internal comms – the noise was really quite horrible – and sat behind his desk.

“What are his initial findings?”

Prowl laid a hardcopy file in front of him. “He confirms the transportation of very large weights of Cybertronium to Tarn, and that the shipments are authorised by Shockwave's monogram. The open-cast mines at Polyhex Gamma and Delta are being extended and production increased to fifteen thousand tonnes a quartex at Gamma, and twenty-three thousand at Delta. The southern end of the Manganese Mountains are full of Decepticons scouting for various minerals. I've sent the full list to Que for analysis and use diagrams.”

Optimus opened the file, scanning the untranslated report. He hadn't been given the file for the neo-language that Jazz' Black Ops operatives used in internal communications, but it had been based upon a cipher that he and Jazz had made up themselves, many vorn ago during their schooling as Archivist and Chronicler. Jazz had taught him the extensions, and though he rarely had cause to use it, doing so gave him a burst of fond nostalgia every time.

He reread the final sentence, and his brow plates drew low over his optics. “Why would the Decepticons be withdrawing from Tarn?”

“I don't know,” said Prowl.

Optimus gave him a sharp look, acutely aware of how much it must have cost the usually haughty tactician to say so. Prowl's optics were dull and distracted, his EM field exhausted. Optimus checked his shift record; clearly he hadn't been recharging.

Prowl's doorwings pulled up sharply. “From every other observation, I would have said that the Decepticons are building up an invasion force – but if that were the case, why would they be sending their materiel to Tarn, only to withdraw all military personnel? It's the only part of the equation that does not make sense.”

Optimus reread the report, committing it to his secure memory, then fed the hardcopy into his desktop molecular deconstructor.

“Call Kup and Ultra Magnus,” he decided. “Share the data, ask their opinions. Then rest. I will talk to Que about his findings.”

Prowl nodded stiffly. “I doubt a rest will do me much good, Prime. I am finding it near impossible to wind down enough to recharge these days.”

His battle computer. Optimus nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps in that case you should go with Ratchet to Iacon, and speak to Pharma about it. Such stress cannot be easy on your neural circuits.”

Prowl made a noncommittal purr of his engine. “I shall consider it. I have forwarded Que your secure line address; he will contact you in a few minutes.”

Optimus deactivated the security systems, and without further preamble, Prowl left.

He busied himself with paperwork, reviewing troop movements and signing his monogram to pre-approved requests for further supplies. The fighting at the northern Tagan Heights frontlines had died down of late, while the Decepticons focused their efforts on advancing across the Centralian plains.

Ultra Magnus was in command in Centralia. A former noble bodyguard, he was no figurehead hero, but his ability to command armies was sublime, and Optimus had felt comfortable in leaving the hardest-fought areas to his capable servos while he in his office of Prime dealt with issues in the other Autobot-held regions. Still, there were things that Magnus couldn't do, and inspiring an embattled – and deeply devout – populace to further resistance was one of them.

Magnus was also one of his oldest friends. Optimus was very much looking forward to seeing him again.

A querying ping landed in Optimus' inbox. He shifted his attention to his HUD, and hurriedly un-muted his internal comms.

“My apologies,” he told a somewhat flustered Que. “I had been in a high-security meeting.”

“Ah,” said Que. “Say no more, my lord; I understand completely. Prowl told me that I should direct my conclusions regarding the Decepticons' prospecting activities to you?”

“Yes,” said Optimus, folding away his paperwork. “Have you anything to report?”

On the other end of the line, Que's communit gave a series of rapid clicks. “In short, they're looking for elements used in a certain hard-wearing construction alloy often used in ground-based artillery and support vehicles such as crawlers and siege engines.”

Optimus opened a private document on his HUD and made a note on it. “What is this alloy?”

“It's diphase carbon-strengthened rustweald. Thunderbolt iron, in layman's terms. I said it was hard-wearing? We coat the insides of acid vats and smelting pits with it. Only needs replacing once every hundred vorn. From a molecular perspective thunderbolt iron is denser and masses more than steel and carbon-based Cybertronium alloys, which means it's heavier. The diphase form was specifically invented for heavy armor; for the most part we use it in battle drones and non-AI vehicles, as I said before.”

Heavy armour, and Cybertronium enough to make a half a million spark chambers. “Could it be used for a sparked mech's plating?”

Que hemmed and hawed. “Well, it's possible. I wouldn't be surprised if Ironhide has a low-density rustweald alloy in his primary shell. But as I said, it's heavy. Most warframes prefer the balance of protection versus mobility to be a little more evenly weighted, and standard carbon-steel alloys give a perfectly broad range of protection by themselves, so not many would find it a practical effort to go to.”

He hesitated, and added, “It is possible, though, that it's not _intended_ to be practical, as such.”

“How do you mean?” asked Optimus.

“Well,” said Que again, “a lot of people think it's indestructible. Go into a battle thinking that, and when the mech whose spark you think you've just blown out gets up and cuts your head off, it can leave quite an impression.”

Optimus thinned his lips. “I see. Is there anything else I should know about it?”

The scientist hummed. “No, I don't believe so.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

Optimus ended the call, and buried his face in his palms.

He kept working all afternoon, theories and possibilities swirling around in his processor. He finished stamping a list of trade agreements between the states still swearing to his jurisdiction that had been waiting on him for several orns now, and moved onto another stack of requisitions papers.

Outside, the sun disappeared behind a bank of green-grey cloud. Thunder began to play a drumbeat symphony over the city.

It came as a surprise when he reached for the next hardcopy sheet, and found only the bare steel of his desk.

Optimus put the stylus down, and shook out his right hand until his third and fourth fingers straightened from their cramped curl. He stared across the dim, shadowy office. The shift had ended some time ago.

He put his things away, and went home.

The rain arrived just as he pulled in under the awning at the front entrance of his residential tower. He transformed, tucking himself in under the meager shelter. The door was locked; he buzzed the doormech, and stepped inside as it folded open.

The apartment was dark, all his appliances off and cold. Ratchet was in their berthroom, curled up on the berth, and Optimus thought at first that he was deep in recharge. But as he moved toward the en-suite, Ratchet's optics flickered online, his optical ridges drawing low in a stressed frown.

“Finally,” he groaned. “I half-thought Prowl was going to keep you all night.”

Optimus took a small washcloth and wet it in the sink, then wiped it over his chest, face and arms to rid his plating of the patina of mud and alkaline dust he'd gathered on the road home.

“In fact I told him to get some recharge much earlier this afternoon. He has been working very hard, and I worry that he will do himself an injury one orn soon if he does not take care of himself.”

He vented, glancing at his reflection. He looked exhausted, deep shadows appearing around his optics, his EM field flat and dull. “Perhaps I should follow my own directive a little better.”

Ratchet made an approving noise. “I'm glad you see that. It means I don't have to chase you up myself.”

Optimus sent him a wry look out the ensuite door. “I am lucky to have you, my dear spark.”

Ratchet laughed. Immediately a hot flash went through his EM field, and his face drew tight in pain.

“What's wrong?” Optimus asked.

His mate did not reply immediately, but a flippant wave of his hand assuaged the most part of Optimus' worries.

“I've been cramping all day. They're not the worst I've had, but I came home from the hospital early and invested in a heat pad regardless.” He lifted his arm from his belly to demonstrate his purchase, a thick, wide mesh pouch filled with insulating crystals. “I'd forgotten how wonderful they are.”

Optimus rinsed the dirty cloth and placed it over the handbasin railing to dry overnight. “Have you taken a painkiller chip?” he asked, turning off the bathroom lights and moving back into the berthroom.

Ratchet's helm lolled back against the pillows, his optics casting bright blue glimmers against the wall. He shifted himself over against the wall to make room on the berth, and Optimus heard the dry hiss of his vents as the cramps struck again.

“I did, but that was as I left the hospital, and they've gotten worse since then. As long as I stay perfectly still, there's a, a valley on this side of the pain that I can gradually slip into, I suppose it's like your meditation. But when I move?” He gave a sharp, derisive vent. “We don't have any stronger ones in the house, and I don't think I'd make it past the front door.”

“Would you like me to go find some?” Optimus asked. “I'm sure the hospital dispensary at least will be open. It isn't a long drive by any means.”

Ratchet's optics shuttered, and he smiled. “Thank you. No, just come here, lie beside me. I'll deal with it.”

Optimus pressed his field against Ratchet's, and fitted himself onto the berth beside him. “The offer is still open, if you change your mind during the night.”

“You are ridiculously generous,” Ratchet grumbled. His EM field pushed back, exasperated warmth pulsing through the wavelengths.

Optimus shuffled a little closer, careful not to crowd him but craving physical contact. “Anything for you, my love,” he murmured. “All I want is your comfort and pleasure.”

“And ridiculously sappy.” Ratchet grabbed his hands and draped his arms over his waist. Optimus flattened his palms against the heat pad, feeling the still very faint swell of Ratchet's abdominal plating beneath it. “Good night, Optimus.”

Optimus smiled and kissed the back of his mate's helm. He hadn't gotten the opportunity to broach the subject of a return visit to Iacon, but no matter; there was still the morning.

“Good night, Ratchet.”

* * *

He woke, as had become more usual than not, to the sound of Ratchet retching in the washracks.

Rather than go immediately to help him, Optimus took a fresh washcloth and wet it under the faucet. He offered it to Ratchet as he straightened, optics closed and ventilations shallow and rapid.

Ratchet cracked open an optic, and stared at him for a long moment.

Optimus stared back. Had he done something wrong?

But Ratchet took the washcloth from his hand after a moment, mumbling a soft thank you.

They moved out into the living room. Optimus went ahead to the energon dispenser, pouring two measures of mid-grade and passing the extra back to Ratchet. “Good morning,” he said.

Ratchet glanced his way. “Morning,” he said, but it had the feeling of a reply by rote. He cupped the vessel in both hands and sipped the mid-grade, gazing out the balcony window over the surrounding city with a thousand-yard stare.

Optimus left him alone while he drank his own energon and gathered the few things he'd brought home from the office the previous night. Sometimes it could take Ratchet a while to wake up in the morning. The mid-grade ought to help, but Optimus wouldn't begrudge him a few extra breem.

He waited for signs of life before approaching. “Ratchet, old friend, may I speak with you?”

Ratchet reset his optics in a surprised blink. “What about?”

Optimus pulled a low-backed chair from the worktable and sat, putting himself on a level closer to Ratchet's. “I'm going to need to leave Altihex quite soon. There are matters that require my presence in the Equatorial States, Meridia and the First City to be precise, and after that in Iacon.”

Ratchet took the news well enough, sipping calmly from his energon. “How soon is 'quite soon'?”

“I've scheduled flights in the evening five orns from now,” said Optimus, relaxing. “The notice is a little short, but such is life for us these days. In any case, I was wondering if you would prefer to remain here in Altihex for the duration of your carrying cycle, or if you'd rather meet me in Iacon after my tour of Centralia.”

Ratchet's optics widened; his gaze bored into Optimus for a sharp moment, then cut away, a murky flavor stealing through him EM field. “Meet you in Iacon?”

“Yes.” Optimus frowned at the sudden tension in his partner's frame. “The Centralian tour will be short and arduous, and your condition is delicate already; I doubt that you would enjoy being dragged around after me.”

“My condition is not _delicate,_ ” Ratchet bit out, and now Optimus recognised the emotion coursing through his field – anger. “Optimus, I know I'm hard to deal with at the moment. If you wanted a break from it you could have just told me outright. I'm not delicate; you know that.”

“I do know that,” Optimus protested. “And I would like it very much if I could have you travel with me, but it would not be good for you—“

Ratchet cut him off. “I'm a medic! I know exactly what's good for me! I would have borne it gladly if it meant I could be with you, and you should have let me decide for myself. But _no,_ you had go and make plans without me!”

Optimus sat back, shocked into silence.

Ratchet put his half-drunk bowl of energon down on the table with shaking hands, and reined in his voice. “I'm not some fragile delicate victim who has to be handled like he's glass,” he said. “You don't touch me anywhere near as much as you used to, and when you do, you hesitate. I have to climb all over you – sometimes _literally_ – before you'll let yourself touch me.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” said Optimus, but Ratchet continued over the top of his words as if he'd never spoken them.

“You do things for me that I'm perfectly capable of doing myself. You hover over me like some helicopter parent. And now I find you making important decisions like these, _for me,_ and I'm not even a part of them beyond being cargo?” His voice rose in pitch and volume; his servos balled into fists and pressed hard against his thighs. “You want me to meet you at the exchange in Iacon like a good little noble mate, all sheltered and caged from anything that might so much as look at me sideways? _Fine!_ You know what's best for me, after all!”

Optimus rose from his seat. “Ratchet, you're not being fair.”

“Screw being fair!” Ratchet shouted. “I want you to take me seriously! As a partner, as a parent, as a slagging medic! I've been around the block more times than you've had papers to sign, I know what I'm doing!”

The bond between them pulsed, threads of anger winding through Optimus' spark. He ruthlessly tamped them down, and tried again. “If I take you with me, you could run the risk of doing yourself – or your baby – a serious injury. All I want is to keep you safe.”

Ratchet's optics went white with fury. “You think I don't know that?! I was traveling between Protihex and Kimia when I lost my first son. You know where I was when I lost my second? _At home_ , in recharge.” He all but snarled, advancing on Optimus. “You want to keep me safe? You don't know a slagging thing.”

“I recognise that,” said Optimus. His voice was shaking, his fingers trembling with the effort of keeping himself calm. “I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't known since I accepted the Matrix. All I can do, Ratchet, is keep going regardless, and try to minimise the casualties along the way.”

Ratchet raised his hands as if in surrender. “You think you can do that by pushing me away?”

“I am not pushing you away!” said Optimus. The sentence rang between the walls; he forced his vocaliser's volume down a few notches. “I am acting on recommendation from your physician to protect you.”

Ratchet grabbed for the edge of the table, leaning heavily on it for support. “I don't need protection!” he shouted, his voice so high with emotion that it was almost a wail. “I _need_ you to trust me! Because I don't know if I can trust you to do that anymore! I need you to trust me to make my own decisions, I need you to trust me to tell you when I need something, I need you to trust _me_ to choose what's right, for myself and for all of us!”

He vented deeply in the sudden silence, and turned away. “Just go,” he said, waving his hand over his shoulder. “I don't need you if I can't trust you.”

It took every bit of strength Optimus had to force himself to move. He picked his stylus up from the table and headed for the stairs. “Goodbye, Ratchet.”

The journey to the Autobot command complex seemed twice as long as usual. He made a wrong turn heading off the southern freeway, and his internal positioning system scolded him with incessant chirps until he found his usual route again. By the time he made it to his office, he'd developed a pounding headache.

He shuttered his optics and rubbed the orbital sockets until the pressure behind them eased. There was a box of painkiller chips somewhere in his desk. He held one servo over his optics, the deprivation of sight easing the congestion in his sensory interpretation protocols, while the other dug fruitlessly for the painkillers.

The mid-grade sloshed around in his tanks. He felt slightly nauseous.

He'd never liked argument. Once upon a time he'd had a partner, an archivist ranked a little higher in the halls than he, who had seemed to take pride in it – not in winning arguments, as most mecha did, but in the simple act of disagreeing with others. Although they were well-matched in other areas, Orion Pax had never understood the appeal. Their relationship hadn't lasted long.

Optimus sat himself at his desk on autopilot, and reached for a file.

It took an age to comprehend the words on the page. He was thoroughly distracted, stray processor threads running the argument through over and over again, analysis protocols trying to figure out where he had gone wrong.

He realised that he had read the same sentence three times in a row, and gave up, closing the file and tossing it onto the end of his desk.

His spark roiled in its chamber, disturbed by the glassy wall between itself and its mate. Ratchet had blocked him out.

_I'm sorry,_ he thought helplessly. _I didn't mean to hurt you, but I did, and I'm so sorry._

He rose, half-tempted to return home even though Ratchet had surely gone to the hospital by now. Sun streamed in through the window, throwing a square of light onto the floor. Outside, the hillside suburbs of Altihex glimmered, stripped clean by the previous evening's rain.

Optimus started as a message landed in his inbox.

It was a databurst, and the callsign was Ratchet's.

Optimus took a deep, nervous vent, and opened it.

:: _Will you be coming home?_ :: it read.

He stared at it for a long moment before he realised what was wrong with it. His prediction protocols kept trying to tack a 'soon' onto the end of the message.

Guilt crashed down over him, heavy enough to batter him to his knees. He tried to swallow away the knot in his intakes, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

:: _Yes, of course I will_ :: he wrote; considered the message for a moment, then erased the second part. :: _Yes, I'm on my way._ ::

Ratchet's side of the bond wavered, but the wall held firm.

Optimus' resolve firmed. He pushed himself to his feet and strode out the door.

He made it back to the apartment in record time. The doormech blinked in surprise to see him so soon, and again as Optimus shouldered through the door before it had fully opened.

The elevator to his seventeenth-floor suite took far too long. He paced back and forth across the car, his fuel tank churning. At last it pinged, and let him out into the hallway.

Ratchet was standing by the apartment door, waiting for him.

Optimus' step faltered, but he forced himself to keep moving forward, past the point where he would have stopped, until he could bend down and draw Ratchet into his arms.

Ratchet looped his arms around Optimus' shoulders and pressed his face against his chest. His frame was racked with fine shudders, his vents coming fast and shallow.

“I'm sorry,” Optimus said, rubbing the small of Ratchet's back. “I shouldn't have made that decision without you.”

:: _I panicked_ :: Ratchet admitted over internal comms. :: _I was strong for about half a minute after you left, and I thought that I'd be able to make it through the day, but then it hit me that you really were gone, and before I knew it I was on the floor, crying._ ::

Optimus held him a little tighter. “You are strong,” he corrected gently, kissing the crown of Ratchet's helm. “I was wrong. Thank you for correcting me.”

:: _I'll try to keep my temper better next time_ :: said Ratchet. :: _You're welcome._ ::

Optimus smiled at the flash of wry humour that went through Ratchet's EM field, watery though it was. “I appreciate the thought.”

He sank to his knees, and then to his aft, gathering Ratchet into his lap. The seventeenth floor was the penthouse suite; there were no other residents to observe them clinging to each other as if the shifting currents of air within the small dark hallway might tear them from each other.

The bond shifted, opening up. Ratchet's emotions crept through, fear and grief and relief commingling with the dominant thread of absolute, unconditional love. Optimus shuttered his optics, and sank into the bond, chasing the complete immersion he'd glimpsed the possibility of during that terrible evening a season ago.

Ratchet pressed a question at him, but gave no indication of withrawing. Optimus sent him a quick explanation. :: _I want to see what else is possible_ :: he said. :: _I wonder how deep we can go._ ::

Ratchet brushed his thumb over the big cables that joined Optimus' helm to his neck just beneath his audial. The touches were soft, tender, made him want to lie down and hold Ratchet to himself forever.

“I'm sorry as well,” Ratchet said aloud, lifting his helm so that he could look Optimus in the optics. “I didn't mean to imply that you wanted me to be a, a Consort, or a charity project. I know that isn't true. I was just so – afraid, and I thought if I could say it myself, then it would hurt less.”  
  
“What were you afraid of?” Optimus asked, softly. “Is there anything I can do to assuage it?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “I was afraid of losing you. I always have been. I said that you hardly ever touch me these days; I told myself that it was only because you didn't want to frighten me, or to trigger my memories, but it was hard to... there was a big difference between knowing it and feeling it. And the part of myself that needed to do the feeling was thinking that perhaps you just didn't want to touch me the way I wanted you to because I got myself raped—”

Optimus sent a pulse of warm assurance over the bond. “I was worried that you wouldn't want me to touch you, for similar reasons,” he said, relief making him smile. “I didn't want to push you too far before you were ready.”

Ratchet's vents hiccuped. “So we've both been worrying over nothing.”

Optimus hummed his agreement. “Perhaps we need to work on better communicating our desires to each other.”

Ratchet rested his forehelm against Optimus' windshield. “Of all mecha, I'm so glad I bonded you.”

Optimus couldn't have stopped the swell of happiness that rose within his spark at those words. It rolled down the bond, drawing an answering throb of joy from Ratchet's spark.

“And I likewise,” he said, kissing Ratchet's crown again. “I recognise what I have done wrong today, and you have my word that I will do my utmost to avoid repeating my mistake again. I love you, and I would love to keep you here in my arms forever, to protect you from everything the world might throw at you – but that would not be fair to you.”

He shifted, his arms tightening around Ratchet’s waist. “What I can do is make sure that you receive the opportunities with which to heal yourself, and can make the choices to do it in the way which best suits you. And while to achieve that, I must step back and allow you to face those choices on your own, I want you to know that you are not alone. I will always be with you in your spark, whether I am in the same room or a thousand leagues away. And you will always have my love and support behind you, no matter how damaged you feel.”

“Thank you,” said Ratchet, and tilted his helm up to kiss him. “I needed that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we officially reach the halfway point of this fic. From here, it's all downward sailing until we reach the end. Gosh I'm so excited 8D


	9. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split this chapter into two, because with the amount of stuff I wanted to fit into it I woulda been looking at 9 or 10K words, which is a biiiiit more than I wanted XD Ah well though, this way will do :D

_i am changing; less and less asleep_

_made of different stuff than when i began_  
…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

 

Ultra Magnus greeted him at the spaceport in Meridia, flanked by more bodyguards than Optimus had seen in one place since the last days of the former Senate.

He handed Optimus a datapad, his face grim. “Metrotitan has fallen.”

Optimus pressed his lips together, holding the shock inward. He took the offered pad and asked, “How bad is it?”

“The shield wall failed late in the midnight shift. Firestar suspects sabotage. Initial losses are estimated at six hundred and forty-eight thousand, with nearly twelve million Autobots and civilians still unaccounted for.”

Metrotitan had not been a large city, even before the war. Its population had been greatly depleted by those fleeing the frontlines. Twelve and a half million lives – Optimus could only shake his helm at the enormity of the number. It made up nearly a quarter of the city's last reported population.

The majority of the missing would be civilians, unbranded noncombatants. He had to hope that that would be enough to protect them.

Ultra Magnus continued. “The First City began intaking refugees at dawn. With your permission I would like to bring most here. There is only one other city with a shield wall between the First City and Metrotitan, and there is every possibility that the frontlines will reach that far north within the vorn.”

Optimus nodded. “You have it. The less disruption we cause the populace, the better. I would like to speak to the refugees once they are settled in – perhaps in two or three orn.”

The bodyguards had arrayed themselves around Optimus as he spoke. He glanced at them, pressing gratitude through his EM field.

Ultra Magnus straightened, and gave a stiff nod. “Yes, sir. Now, if you would follow me, I will take you straight to the command center. Our plans have changed.”

* * *

 

Optimus spent the next three orn in a whirl of high-level military preparation and visits to the quickly-filling refugee camps growing up in Meridia's outer suburbs. He gave speech after speech, spoke to those whom had escaped the invasion in Metrotitan, and led prayer masses for the legions of the dead and dying. He visited hospitals, made official appointments, and caught quick naps between engagements. The rest kept him on his pedes, but by the time he climbed aboard the shuttle to the First City, he felt ready to keel over and fall into recharge where he stood.

The shuttle ran through her emergency protocols through external comms. Optimus forced himself to pay attention, his optics fluttering shut as he sank into the plush seats. Primus, this sort of luxury wasn't fair. His systems hummed, threatening to wind down entirely.

Hands adjusted the seat around him. He cracked open his optics.

His aide de camp smiled down at him. “Recharge while you can, my Lord. The First City will be just as busy.”

“I see,” he murmured. “How long will we be in the air?”

The shuttle answered, her voice deep and resonant. “The flight to the First City lasts for approximately one and a half joor. All passengers, please be seated for takeoff.”

Optimus' aide found her own seat, fastening the frame restraints. The rumbling of powerful flight engines spun up into an all-encompassing roar.

Optimus glanced out the viewport as the shuttle began to taxi along the runway. The mass of Meridia's central hive swallowed the horizon, dark against the vivid purple light of the setting sun. The shuttle reached the end of the runway and turned. The city left Optimus' field of vision.

Acceleration pressed him back in his seat. The roaring became thunder, engines screaming. The ground fell away, and the shuttle lifted into the darkening sky.

He shuttered his optics. Exhaustion pressed him into recharge.

* * *

 

The flow of reports from Metrotitan began to dry up. The Decepticons consolidated their hold on the southwest corner of Centralia, and gradually, the front lines began to march northward.

The private recovery ward room in the First City military hospital was small and dark. The windows were open, but the stink of nanite gel had hardly faded.

Optimus took a seat by the berth, careful not to disturb the lines and monitors attached to the small dexter that occupied it. Ultra Magnus, and the First City garrison commander, a mech by the name of Broadside, stood quietly behind him.

The dexter's optics fluttered open, focusing on Optimus.

“Sir,” she croaked. Her arm twitched, as if she wanted to salute but lacked the strength.

“Good evening, Strongarm,” said Optimus. He reached out through his EM field, smoothing it over the ragged edges of her wavelengths. “How do you feel?”

“Floatin' on clouds, sir,” she said faintly. “It hurt, before, but not now.”

Broadside shifted behind Optimus. “Painkiller chips,” he murmured. “Triple X always made me a bit loopy.”

Optimus gave her a reassuring smile. “Do you feel able to give us a preliminary report?”

Strongarm's optical ridges drew together. “Think so. Don't know how much I understood, though.”

Ultra Magnus brought out a recording device. “Please recount everything you remember from the orn of the attack and after.”

Strongarm's optics flicked to the window and back. “Yes, sir.”

According to recovered copies of the Metrotitan duty roster, she had been assigned to one of the units on security duty at the city's main power station. To date, of those units, she was the only survivor.

That morning, she had driven into the main street of a mineral-farming town around four hundred leagues east of Metrotitan, transformed, and collapsed. The town's mayor had recognised the Autobrand on her chest, and sent for the First City.

The reason for her collapse was obvious. She was covered in wounds, the energy sears and solid-state bullet scars, slashes and stab wounds of the initial battle, and newer injuries, the dents and surface tears of a savage beating. Her left leg was almost entirely stripped of armor, loose stays and leaking hydraulic lines slowly draining her of vital fluids. There was a rust infection in the lower part of her ventilation system; between words she paused to cough thick red fluid from her ventral exhaust, sounding entirely miserable. Only extraordinary tenacity had gotten her to civilization, and lifesaving medical attention.

“We were in the outer sanctum of the generator,” she said, her voice shaking with effort. “The first explosion happened three joor and eighteen kliks into the midnight shift. Lifted us off our pedes and threw us across the floor. The roof collapsed. I think I was the only one who got out. Found the cohort commander – he told me that the shield wall was going, and to get to the suburbs and fight, that we'd hold them off until reinforcements arrived.”

Ultra Magnus and the garrison commander exchanged a look.

Strongarm's vents wheezed. She made a tired face, and continued.

“We exchanged fire with the enemy for three joor. They just kept coming; it didn't look like our fire was actually doing anything to them. Lot of purple paintjobs, I thought. Then a rocket hit the building we were in, so we made a run downtown to resupply, and found out the 'Cons were into our depot. Sent a rocket in the window, ran like the Pit.

“Then the Seekers came over. Dropped some gigantic charges right on our heads, leveled the other side of the street. Metro Tower downtown collapsed, took a huge chunk out of the hive. We didn't see what had happened until dawn, but we _heard_ it, Primus! Our comms officer bled out and we had to leave her there, couldn't have got out ourselves if we'd taken her. More of the purple paintjobs. Tanks, big warbuilds. We'd shoot them with our biggest caliber and they'd get up and keep coming.” She dragged in a long, rattling vent. “We were running on empty by then. Tried to retreat, find the rest of our troops, but the 'Cons had gone past us in the night and cut us off.”

Her EM field went murky with remembered pain. “They caught us a bit before dawn. Killed the commander first. Cut his armor away and then melted through his core locks with a thermoelectric blade. I never heard anyone scream like that. Then the TO. He... struggled. The mech holding me down thought I was offline. He got up to help the others, and I ran. Don't know how I lost them, but I did. I just kept going. Got caught in another bombing run on the outskirts, something fell down on my leg, and when I managed to get it free I couldn't put my weight on it anymore. The sky was clear, and I didn't see any Decepticons around. So, I transformed – Primus below, it _hurt_ – and... drove until my tank emptied.”

She offlined her optics, her ragged mouth set. “That's my report, sir.”

Optimus rested a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Strongarm. Rest, now. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call the nurses.”

Her field relaxed, her systems winding down. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. “Don't make me go back.”

Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but she had already slipped into enforced recharge.

* * *

 

A quartex after Metrotitan's fall, Optimus' shuttle flew into the Greater Iacon Metropolitan Spaceport.

The day was crisp and cold after the tropical heat of Centralia. He drew his plating tight against his frame as he disembarked, his vents condensing into white puffs in the polar air.

The spaceport was built atop the central of the five Observatories, steep-sided tabletop plateaux that rose almost half a league above the Iacon plains. The pale northern sky arched over them, rippling with faint daytime aurorae. The rise of Iacon's Towers peeked above the northern edge of the Observatory, glimmering in the daylight.

Inside the high-caste Arrivals lounge, the Primal party was met by Elita One and her entourage.

The massive pink dexter bent to hug Optimus with all the smooth confidence of an alpha-ranked Towersmech. “Good morning,” she whispered into his audial. “Ratchet sends his love. He is being watched by parties unknown, and we thought it best that he stayed away until you have a plan.”

“I see,” Optimus replied, returning her warm embrace. Where Magnus' formal military background had trained him to be aloof with his affections, Elita had lived all her life among the topmost echelons of Iaconian society. Optimus hadn't yet found a more touchy-feely group of mecha.

Elita released him, straightening and returning to a friendly distance. “Did you recharge well on your flight, Optimus? The Imperial Household Agency have a busy day planned for us. For you, rather.” Her bright blue optics glimmered against her dark grey face. “I believe they have forgotten the way that plans tend to come undone around you.”

Optimus' lips twitched in an amused smile despite himself. “I am well-rested. And very glad to see that you are well.”

Elita offered him her arm, in the fashion of Towersmecha who wished to offer an escort. Optimus took it with a further smile. Her presence was relaxing; he found his plating loosening once again, despite the bitter cold and his many worries.

“I will admit that managing Iacon and the Northern Territories on my own was a challenge,” she sighed, leading their joint parties toward the exit. “However, I am not in the habit of letting myself be defeated by such challenges. The Senate may throw what they like at me, but it is no longer their age.”

A warframe almost as large as Elita joined them as they passed through the double glass doors into the main Arrivals hall. Chromia dipped her helm to Optimus, then fell into step behind him. This coincidentally put her right beside Optimus' bodyguard. She shortened her stride to match her much smaller mate's, her EM field commingling with Ironhide's.

Elita gave Optimus a sly look. A private comm channel opened in his communication suite. :: _She has been pining for him for entire lunar cycles. Plainly I do not give her enough work._ ::

:: _He has not been much better_ :: Optimus observed. :: _I feel I should not comment, however, given that I do not seem to be much more composed with regards to Ratchet._ ::

Elita's EM field pushed against his, lightly affectionate. :: _I am sorry I could not bring him to you_ :: she said. :: _He has not been popular with the Senate, I'm afraid._ ::

:: _They have not attempted anything?_ :: asked Optimus, though he knew the answer.

:: _They have not_ :: said Elita. :: _There have simply been murmurs, among many levels of society. All of High Iacon knows that you have either bonded him or taken him as a private lover; their opinions regarding this vary depending on which interpretation they favor._ ::

:: _Such as?_ :: Optimus prompted.

Elita sent him an aggrieved emoji, though her EM field and expression remained perfectly neutral. :: _Those who prefer to think that you mean to keep him as a private lover do not much care about him outside of the commotion he causes in the Chamber of Commons. It is perfectly historical for Primes to have taken tier-three mecha as lovers and even kindle children with them; if it weren't for your political value as a, hm, perceived-unbonded Prime, I doubt that any but the strictest conservatives would care._ ::

:: _Oh dear. What is he doing in the Commons?_ :: Ratchet had once held an observer's seat in the Chamber of Commons. Upon enlisting with the Autobots, he had resigned his position, but this meant little when most of his old colleagues still retained their posts.

:: _Well – not him, but his successor as the medical collegiate's Observer. When any mech is raised as close to a Prime as he is to you, rumors or not, those related to that mech, even by periphery, benefit. The collegiate's influence within the Commons is growing. That frightens the progressives because the collegiate has traditionally been one of the bastions of the conservatives, and it frightens the conservatives because everyone who is anyone knows that Ratchet is most definitely not a conservative._ ::

Elita continued. :: _The High Chamber, for the most part, does not care about what the Commons does as long as they continue to ratify the laws they're sent. Their primary concern is your eligible bachelorhood. Everyone knows that Primes only bond once: so, they think, they had better get their case in there before anyone else, because the clade which provides the Prime with his bondmate is a very powerful clade indeed for the length of that Prime's rule. When they discover that you are already bonded, they are going to be... very disappointed. And, if I know my fellow alphas at all as much as I think I do, they are going to do everything they can think of to discredit you._ ::

They left the terminal building. An automated rail capsule waited to take them down into the city. Inside it was plush and richly decorated, typical of the Imperial Household Agency. Optimus climbed into the first, private capsule, Elita following. Their entourage piled into a second, larger one attached to the rear.

:: _I will have to act sooner rather than later_ :: Optimus decided. :: _Mirage advised that I give an official announcement. What are your thoughts?_ ::

Elita mulled it over. :: _Good advice. I doubt that you are going to get off scot-free, but the sooner you make it official, the better. High Iacon does not like secrets._ ::

The rail capsule slid into motion with a faint hum of electromagnetism. They moved forward, the station flashing out of view. The Observatory fell away beneath them, and suddenly the sparkling vistas of High Iacon was all that Optimus could see.

He leant forward, gathering his hands in his lap. :: _To where are we bound?_ ::

“Springs Junction,” Elita said aloud. “From there, on to the Council Towers. Ratchet will meet you there.”

She added, over private comms, :: _And, Optimus... I suggest that you discuss your options with him and make your announcement as soon as possible. He's beginning to show._ ::

* * *

 

Ratchet had moved back into his old lodgings in Iacon, a high-rise apartment in the Oratory Forum. It overlooked the Concord Plaza and Iacon University's School of Medicine, which was currently hosting a student protest with regards to a hike in tuition fees.

“They're right, you know,” said Ratchet from the apartment's small kitchenette, pouring himself a carefully-measured cocktail of evil purple jet fuel and bright blue mid-grade energon. “Medicine is already the most expensive discipline to study, and even young mecha from the dedicated medical clades are having to make the choice of taking out very large loans from high-ranked lenders who charge exorbitant interest rates, or, if their grades are in the top percentiles, basically patron themselves to wealthy individuals or organisations who then as good as own them and their skills for however long it takes until their debts are paid off.”

Optimus frowned down at the massed students. A line of Enforcers stood halfway across the Plaza, making no move to attack but simply waiting, quietly threatening.

“I became Prime to stop things like this from happening,” he murmured. “We're dismantling the caste system, but the top two tiers are still in control of the Empire's finances, and this is what they are doing to enforce the old system in a way that is still legal.”

Ratchet appeared at his elbow. “Education should be a right, not a privilege. Energon?” He offered Optimus a decanter of mild mid-grade.

Optimus smiled his thanks. “I agree. I'd like to bring the matter to the Commons; with luck enough of them might agree with me that we can push it to the Bureau of Legislation without a majority of the High Chamber.”

“Good luck with that,” said Ratchet.

He turned away from the window, heading for the stairwell up to his second-level berthroom. Halfway across the floor, he paused, and looked back at Optimus over his shoulder.

“Could I... talk to you in private?”

Optimus briefly shuttered his optics. “We are in private.”

Ratchet's EM field lashed. “I know. Not here.”

“Oh.” Optimus put the empty decanter down and approached him. “Then where should we go?”

Ratchet vented slowly. “It's too open in here. Too many windows.” He walked to the foot of the stairs and stood there, staring expectantly at Optimus.

“Oh,” said Optimus again. “I see.”

He followed Ratchet up into the much smaller loft room. There were windows here too, but the glass was blacked out; the soft pink glow of the handful of thermoluminescent crystals on Ratchet's headboard provided the only light.  
Ratchet sat on the side of the berth, the sheets rumpling under his weight. He pressed his hands against his abdominal plating, cupping the visible curve that had recently developed.

“I've been thinking, while you were away,” he said, his ventilation fans spinning hard. “Please hear me out; I don't know if I'll have the bravery to keep going if I get interrupted.”

Optimus sat on the berth beside him, resting a gentle hand on Ratchet's forearm. “I will.”

Ratchet's optics fixed on the point of contact. “I... I miss interfacing with you,” he said in a rush, “and I want to do it again. But, there's something that I'm just...” his mouth worked for a moment, searching for the words; he hissed through his dente when his vocabulary failed him. “Scared,” he finished, though it was obviously not quite the right descriptor for the concept he wanted to share. “Not sure, about.”

“What is it?” asked Optimus.

Rather than answer, Ratchet spread his thighs and guided Optimus' hand between them, to his closed valve panel.

There was heat under it, warmth and the throbbing pulse of an electrical current that made Optimus' own pelvic components twitch in sympathy.

“It happens, from time to time,” Ratchet admitted, an undercurrent of blunt shame slinking through his EM field. “I felt it before, as I was pouring the energon. I wasn't thinking of anything much, but it... something is making me wet. And I'm afraid that it's... what happened to me.”

“Oh,” said Optimus, much softer this time. He made to pull his hand away as Ratchet loosened his hold.

“No, don't—” Ratchet caught his hand again. “I think it'll be less frightening if I can tell myself that it's you making me feel like this. Please?”

Optimus forcibly made himself relax. He was afraid, so afraid of hurting Ratchet – but he had to let Ratchet make his own decisions. And if nothing else he could admit to himself that he wanted this, wanted to be Ratchet's mate again in the physical sense.

He vented, sucking cool air inward. “What would you have me do?”

Ratchet sagged with relief. He directed a quick smile up at Optimus, and released his hand.

“At the moment, I don't know.” He leant backward and lifted his legs up onto the berth, fingertips brushing self-consciously over the panel between his legs. “I think— but then I change my mind. Come here?”

Optimus lay down on the berth beside him, offering his hands. Ratchet took them, twining his fingers with Optimus'.

“It feels dishonest, somehow,” he murmured, frowning down at their joined hands. “As though I'm keeping secrets from you, even though I myself don't know what those secrets are. I just want to be able to frag you again, like we did before it. Before the, the rape.”

There was a small pause. Ratchet turned his face up toward Optimus' and met his optics, a sort of desperation hidden deep down in him. “I'm trying to call it what it is, but the word makes me think—I don't know. I saw rape victims while I was working in Emergency, treated them, and I thought I was treating them well but now that the word is, is _me_ , I don't know that so much any more because there's still this visceral deep-down thought that _I don't want this to apply to me_. I suppose I don't want anyone to pity me like I think I pitied them.”

Optimus gathered Ratchet into his arms, carefully avoiding the left shoulder. He found himself, for once, without anything to say. Instead, he wrapped his EM field around Ratchet's, and let his mate talk.

“It's trauma, I suppose.” Ratchet sighed, and pressed his face to Optimus' chest. “I don't want to apply the word to myself because it's a reminder that I was hurt, and hurt badly – and who would want to remember that? But sometimes I forget, and that makes me feel so guilty.”

Optimus wrapped his arms around Ratchet's waist, stroking the curve of his back. “You have every right to apply whatever words you want to yourself.”

Ratchet huffed. “Then I'll have to be a, a rape _survivor_. I refuse to be a victim.”

“Being a victim is no reflection upon you, Ratchet; only those who victimise you.” But he thought of how that might sound, and added, “But it isn't my place to tell you to choose one or the other.”

“Exactly,” said Ratchet. He wriggled out of Optimus' arms, and climbed up his body, kissing him. :: _I know. It's just that the victims I see tend to be dead. I want to survive, and I want to_ live. ::

:: _I want you to live as well_ :: said Optimus. :: _I want to mate with you again, I want to stand in the Chamber of the Ancients and face the Oracle with you by my side, I want to see you give birth to our child._ ::

:: _Our child?_ :: repeated Ratchet, his optics wide. :: _You'd claim her?_ ::

“Yes,” said Optimus, and smiled. “I wondered, at first, whether the circumstances of her kindling would make a difference, but I do not think that they should. She will be ours in all the ways that matter.”

Ratchet kissed him fiercely. :: _Thank you_ :: he said through comms. :: _Thank you, thank you._ ::

Optimus held him tight. :: _I love you, Ratchet._ ::

And the bond echoed with the ringing toll of their joy.

* * *

 

The berthroom was dark, the glowing crystals having been shoved unceremoniously into a cupboard. The only points of light were their optics, blazing white with charge.

Ratchet arched, pushing his hips up against the teasing pressure of Optimus' hand against his valve panel. Optimus took the chance to slide his other arm beneath the curve of Ratchet's back, pulling his mate tighter against his body. He rubbed the tips of his first two fingers in loose circles over Ratchet's panel, his ventilations coming fast and shallow.

This was the first chance they'd had to test Ratchet's theory. It was the middle of the night; he'd been in recharge a scant few minutes ago. He had woken to Ratchet's soft calls, a strange note in his voice. Before he'd had the chance to ask what was the matter, Ratchet had straddled his hips and the throb of electricity behind his panels had brought certain parts of Optimus surging into wakefulness.

Ratchet's optics flickered up to meet his. A hint of a smile in the shadows, and his valve panel snicked open.

His outer components were slick and swollen, hot with charge. The faint glow of biolights glimmered off Optimus' fingers.

Optimus hesitantly touched the corded channel rim.

Ratchet made a small noise, breathed, “That's it, like that.” His valve clenched, and new lubricant wet Optimus' fingers.

Emboldened, Optimus rubbed his fingers around the still-tight opening. He watched Ratchet's face for clues, pressing hard against the folds that protected his anterior cluster. Ratchet sighed and his optics shuttered nearly closed, thrusting his hips up into the touches.

Optimus dipped his helm, and kissed Ratchet's crown. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Ratchet managed. “Oh, yes. Harder, there.”

Optimus pushed the mesh back and pinched lightly. The node cluster peeked out of Ratchet's array. He touched it with a fingertip and a shock of electricity leapt from Ratchet to him.

Ratchet's helm thunked against Optimus' chest. “I missed this, Optimus.”

“As did I,” Optimus agreed. He left Ratchet's valve for a moment to stroke the transformation seams on the insides of his thighs. Ratchet's hydraulic mechanisms twitched, pushing his legs open further. “As Primus is my witness, you are beautiful,” he said softly. “Where do you want me next?”

Ratchet grabbed his hand, bringing it back to his valve. His channel clenched under Optimus' fingertips, sliding open under the pressure.

Optimus took the hint, pressing the tip of his middle digit to the opening. The outer calipers let him in only grudgingly, and he frowned at Ratchet, expecting to be told to stop. But Ratchet shuttered his optics and vented heavily, and after a moment Optimus' knuckle met the valve rim.

Ratchet had gone still in his arms.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked. “Do you want to keep going?”

A short, jerky nod. “Yes.”

He grabbed Optimus' shoulders as the finger in his valve thrust gently in and out. Optimus crooked it on the instroke, looking for the node cluster on the roof of Ratchet's channel that had been a lot of fun on their bonding night. Ratchet's calipers loosened gradually, but not enough that he felt comfortable adding a second finger.

Ratchet gasped, tightened his grip on Optimus' pauldrons. “It's not enough. More, please, Optimus!”

“I'd hurt you,” Optimus protested. “Your mechanisms are wound tight.”

“Try it anyway,” Ratchet said, groping for Optimus' hand. “Please.”

Optimus relented. He withdrew, and put the tips of his first two fingers together, then pushed them inwards.

He'd been right. Ratchet's internal mechanisms did not want to let him in.

He pressed gently, hoping for a little give, until Ratchet made an audibly pained noise. Optimus drew his hand away. “Ratchet, it will do no good to force your body.”

Ratchet shuttered his optics, hit the berth pad with both fists. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right,” said Optimus. He gathered Ratchet's hands into his, and gently loosened his fingers from their tight curl. “This isn't the end. We'll try again.”

“I know,” said Ratchet. He turned his face into Optimus' chest, hiding his expression. “I just want it so much. Why won't my body do what I tell it?”

Optimus had no answer to that.

He held Ratchet until they both fell into recharge. In the morning, when he woke up, he was alone.

* * *

 

They tried again a couple of afternoons later. Optimus laid on his back and kissed Ratchet to distract him, teasing the hot wet outer components of his valve for a much longer time before he attempted to penetrate him again.

Ratchet groaned, a noise of thick pleasure, as Optimus' knuckles bumped up against the rim of his valve. His calipers fluttered, rapidly clenching and relaxing. Perhaps this time would be different.

Optimus slid his other hand down over Ratchet's aft. He searched for Ratchet's anterior cluster by tactile memory, pressing his fingertips between the soft protective folds.

Ratchet groaned, rocked himself back into the stimulation. “Oh, Optimus,” he groaned, and tucked his knees up by Optimus' sides. The new position changed the angle of penetration, and suddenly there was room enough inside of him for Optimus to slip another finger in beside the first.

Ratchet sat up, his expression slack. His EM field whipped and skirled around him, edged with hot red and pink desire. He moved with Optimus' thrusts, meeting the inward push each time and finding new angles, new nodes to stimulate. Optimus pinched his anterior cluster and Ratchet cried out, overloading around his fingers.

Optimus held him up as the strength left his limbs. He hung his helm as the charge eddied, not quite too overcome to lift his optics to Optimus and give a victorious grin.


	10. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of chapter 9.

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

Cloudy mist drifted through the spires of Iacon. The sky was black, pinpricked with stars. A monolithic bank of cloud rolled in off the Polar Depression, looming on the northern horizon. Blue and gold aurorae rippled across the atmosphere behind it.

The streets of Iacon's Forums were quieter than Optimus had seen for many vorn. The Imperial capital never slept; there was work to do at all hours, entertainment to be had and services to be exchanged. Yet on this night it seemed to be coming very close. Optimus hadn't strode through streets this empty since the crisis periods of the Clampdown.

Ironhide whuffed through his side vents as they passed a squad of Enforcers, hurrying past in the opposite direction. “Can't imagine what they're running for, on a night like tonight.”

Optimus' optics refocused for low light as he stepped out of the pool of light in front of the Boreal Grand Bank's flagship office. His proximity sensors whirled into high activity to compensate for the lowered visibility, his infrared sensors humming in stand-down.

“Iacon is much like several different cities gathered under one municipal umbrella,” he said. “What is true in one part of the city does not necessarily communicate to the others.”

He craned his helm upward, tracking the bright flare of a jet's thermal wake through the air traffic lanes between the skyscrapers, the first fellow Cybertronian besides Ironhide that he'd seen since he'd left the Emporiums.

It was especially jarring that the Forums, Iacon's political and governmental hub, should be so empty. He could hear traffic from the Imperial Way, the primary thoroughfare through the Forum of Enlightenment, but the street they trod now was hardly a quiet suburban cul-de-sac, even in comparison.

“Weird,” Ironhide muttered.

“Is that a comment, or an observation?” Optimus glanced over his shoulder at his bodyguard. Ironhide was a native of Tarn, Cybertron's southern industrial powerhouse; he often found Iaconian practices bemusing.

“Neither,” the old warframe grunted. He gestured upward, at the airspace the jet had just vacated. “Yeh notice that one was shielded?”

Optimus' neural net prickled. “No, I did not.”

“RGB spectrum, gamma signature, EM fields dampened. Someone doesn't want to be noticed.”

Optimus stared in the direction the jet had come from – the same direction in which the Enforcers had gone.

He stopped in the middle of the street, and shared the observation with Ironhide. “It may be coincidence, but I would feel wrong dismissing it out of hand.”

“Yeh're not going to investigate,” growled Ironhide. “Yeh're gonna get what you came here for and then we're gonna go somewhere _safe_.”

Optimus met his optics. Ironhide returned the even stare with a drill-sergeant glare. For a few moments, Optimus wondered how far he should push it. Then, he relented.

“Yes, you're right,” he sighed. “Although I'd like to go to Ratchet tonight. The Primal Residences are far too large and grand for me.”

Ironhide gave him a long look. “I guess so,” he said grudgingly. “So long as you sit tight until morning.”

Optimus inclined his helm. “I shall.”

The deep shadows around the massive tower block of Cassiopeia Media Works lengthened as the approaching cloud bank drew closer. Neither moon had risen yet.

This particular street was one with which Optimus had far more than a passing familiarity. As Orion Pax, he had strode along it many times. Two blocks to the south lay the Iacon Hall of Records complex; three to the north, the Enlightenment Forum's public rail station.

It had been a long time since Optimus had had reason to explore Orion Pax's old stomping ground; he did not recognise every structure and shopfront. It was enough familiarity to give him a measure against which to compare the modern street, and enough difference to make it decidedly ill-fitting.

It was a relief when they reached the foyer of the Public Interests Bureau's office block. Optimus had to show the rather nervy night guard three forms of identification to gain entry, and even then the guard took long enough to accept them that he considered simply opening his core and shoving the Matrix in the mech's face. He was aware that the Bureau was not popular, but there was a difference between conscientiousness and pedantry.

He did put his foot down when the mech attempted to force Ironhide to wait in the foyer.

“Ironhide is my bodyguard; he goes where I go,” he said firmly, gazing down at the hapless guard. “There are a great many mecha who would be pleased to see me dead, including but not limited to some of your employers. Ironhide's attendance upon me is not negotiable.”

The guard backed down after that. Ironhide pushed past him, the grin on his faceplates understandable if not exactly _nice_.

They exited the lift on the twenty-fourth floor, counting the numbers on the solid steel doors until they reached Conference Room Number 37. Optimus pinged the lock with the code he'd been given that afternoon, and the blast doors slid open.

There was only one mech inside; a small light standard, blue and red plated with stressed blue-white optics. He looked up from a datapad as they entered, exventing gustily.

“Director Whitelock,” Optimus greeted him. “You wish to discuss matters with me, I believe.”

The recently-appointed Director of Internal Security put the datapad down on the long conference table, staring up at Optimus. It was their first meeting; most mecha did the same upon coming face-to-face with the Prime.

“I do,” Whitelock said. He sounded exhausted; his vocaliser crackled with hints of static between words. “This wretched war is entering a new phase.”

He dug another, smaller datapad from subspace, handed it to Optimus. “I've been in contact with your Special Operations commander. Tarn was not the focus of the Decepticons' actions – simply the supply depot, as it were, and Shockwave sitting pretty on top of the pile.”

Optimus took the datapad. “What is this?”

“A summary of the events of the past three lunar cycles leading up to the fall of Metrotitan,” said the Director. “This was a major incursion, the likes of which we haven't seen since Burthov and Polyhex. It also contains what little we know of the appearance of these new Decepticon combat regiments so instrumental in the attack on Metrotitan.”

Optimus activated the pad, scrolled through the table of contents. It was very thorough – he'd have to devote a good half a joor to analysis. “The purple-armoured ones that have appeared in every frontline report I have received?”

“We think they're cold-constructs,” Whitelock said glumly.

Optimus frowned. “We hold Vector Sigma. The embodiment factories are on lockdown.”

“I know,” said Whitelock. “How much do you know of Megatron's pet scientist, Shockwave?”

“Very little,” said Optimus, blinking at the rapid change of subject. “He was not a high-level defector, such as Jhiaxus or Thunderwing, therefore I was never briefed on his relevance.”

Whitelock hmmed. “That may have been quite an oversight on my predecessor's part. To bring you up to speed, Shockwave was originally a member of the tier-three medical caste in Crystal City. He appears to have been part of of the Talus cultural minority, likely kindled; his application to the Crystal City School of Biomechanical Engineering was written in the Talus dialect. He completed the basic qualification to perform general practice medicine, the Certificate of competency issued by the Northern Medical Registry board, then underwent further postgraduate study went on to become a medical researcher specialising in electrical systems. Near the end of Nova Prime's reign, he was given special dispensation to study sparks by the Crystal City Ethics Committee. When the New Regulations were brought in by Zeta Prime, he reapplied to the Northern Ethics Committee for the same dispensation, and was given it due to his exemplary work in the field.”

Optimus inclined his helm in thought. The New Regulations had been what had finally prompted Megatron to speak out against the Empire. That Shockwave had, despite the subject of his work, been granted permission to continue his studies spoke volumes as to his position in the scientific and medical communities.

“What was the subject of his work?”

Whitelock bared his dente in an expression that was half-grin, half-grimace. “The propagation of energy from spark plasma to electrical systems. And back – not that anyone knew it at the time.”

Optimus went very, very still.

He said, carefully, “I see.”

Carried in those two small syllables was a host of meaning. Suddenly, he could make an educated guess as to what had happened.

The Cybertronian Empire was, in practice, a theocracy. Since the Reunification of the late Second Generation, the entire planet had been brought together under the hegemony of the Prime – a theological office, made semi-divine by its association with the Matrix, the last relic of the Thirteen and of Primus Himself. The Prime did not carry the Empire's power by himself, sharing it instead with the gatherings of the Senate and of the Cardinal Assembly. Of the two assemblies, the Primacy was historically far closer to the Cardinal Assembly.

Over the course of the Golden Age, the Primacy and the Mythos became closer and closer entwined. The relationship between the two was one of mutual dependence – the Primacy gained from the support of the Mythos historical and spiritual legitimacy, and in return granted the organizations of the Mythos political power and lay influence.

The lay influence was key. In the New Regulations, the Cardinal Assembly of Zeta's time, and the Prime himself, a fiercely religious individual from a radical middle stream of the Occidens Orthodox broadstream, had forced past the Senate a set of restrictions based upon Occidens church law. These restrictions had included the prohibition of attempts to replicate the properties of a spark or portions thereof. The newly-criminalised act had been categorised under the concept of anathema – the most dire of the Mythos' sins.

The ancient sentence for those convicted of anathema was that of empurata.

Optimus thought of Shockwave's flattened, simple helm with its lone staring optic, and found his hands clenching tight. He shuttered his optics and loosened his fingers from their furious curl.

“He was downcast as well, I take it?”

Whitelock nodded. “Stripped of all status, declared Untouchable. It's likely that he also faced shadowplay of some sort.”

Optimus frowned. “I have not heard that term before. What does it refer to?”

There was a significant pause before Whitelock answered.

“You must understand that the Golden Age Primacy was one of the most powerful institutions in the Galactic Standard at its time – and it was exceedingly anxious to remain so. The Household Agency, the movers and shakers of the Mythos, the Senate itself, every branch of that power developed its own methods to shore itself up against any and every threat. Shadowplay is one of those – we use the term to refer to neurocircuitry alteration of various forms, performed by a shadowy group of people whose identities and even existences were never confirmed, in order to render ideas and concepts which the Primacy deemed too dangerous to be allowed to propagate, unable to be communicated.”

Optimus put the datapad down on the conference table, before he could accidentally break the screen – or worse, throw it at something. “We are glitched to the _core_ ,” he murmured, words roughening until he spoke in a soft growl. “All this, over scientific research?”

“Scientific research that potentially could lead to a very dangerous achievement indeed,” said Whitelock, with the air of a mech saying something he deeply wished he could hand off to someone else. “The prohibition had a practical application. It restricted the creation of new mecha to Senate-sanctioned individuals and groups.”

Ironhide, previously hunched in a shadowy corner, stirred. “It stopped mecha from buildin' up armies that weren't under the Primacy's control.”

Cybertronium enough to make half a million spark chambers. Elements used in the creation of a super-durable alloy. Decepticons who would not fall down and die.

Suddenly, Optimus knew the shape of the world beyond all doubt.

“Shockwave is kindling an army.”

There was a long silence.

Whitelock dipped his helm in studied concurrence. “The particulars are on that datapad – but, yes. Jazz witnessed the forging of one spark. It is very close to being beyond doubt.”

“What's to doubt?” asked Ironhide, forgetting that he was supposed to be guarding only. The director gave him a measured look, but answered regardless.

“There is a possibility that Megatron simply talked some of his fighting force into full-frame reformats in order to bulk up a very small initial force of synthetic sparks. However, our intelligence suggests that the number of such mecha on the field in Metrotitan approached five hundred thousand.” Whitelock rolled his shoulders, as if to comment on the likelihood of the scenario. “It's unlikely, to say the least.”

Optimus vented deeply, squaring himself. “I will read the report in depth, and we will reconvene tomorrow. Does Ultra Magnus know this?”

Whitelock nodded. “He will be given the same report. Firestar will provide any further explanation; she is more familiar with the particulars of the operation than I at this junction, having been part of it on an operational level.”

“Good.” Optimus picked up the datapad, extended a thin upload cable, and locked the device with his own personal code. He then tucked it into his subspace, and by the time he gave his thanks to the Director, Ironhide was standing by the door, ready to go.

They walked back through the empty streets in silence. Optimus' thoughts whirled with images of empurata victims and old friends with blank, unrecognising faces, Ironhide a faithful shadow behind his back.

Megatron now had the ability with which to create entire armies from scratch.

What could – or would? - his old friend do with that?

* * *

 

They'd found, after a few stops and starts, that Ratchet tended to relax easier when the berthroom was lighter rather than darker. Today, the windows were clear, and the watery boreal sunlight cast a bright patch on the floor and the edge of the berth. Ratchet's crystals glimmered from every facet, scattering light in vivid purple and pink hues around the loft.

Optimus held his weight on his forearms above Ratchet, doing his best not to crowd his mate with his own bulk. He bent his helm to kiss Ratchet, their foreheads brushing together with intimate promise.

Ratchet lifted his legs, wrapping them around Optimus' hips. Their pelvic arrays ground together, heat and pressure making Optimus' neural net shiver. The curve of Ratchet's abdomen pressed against his own.

He half-worried that the physical activity of mating would hurt the sparkling. He'd been assured otherwise by both Cogwheel (“In fact, transfluid assists the sparkling in gathering material resources without draining the carrier of vital minerals!”) and Ratchet himself (“ _Not_ doing it would hurt _me_.”)

—the latter hadn't been very reassuring, but fortunately Optimus had had many vorn over which to acquaint himself with Ratchet's often snarky sense of humour.

He let himself settle a little more of his weight onto Ratchet's hips, bracing the rest of him with one hand. The hand this freed up swept a smooth caress down Ratchet's side, dipping into armour seams, down around his hip to the attractive curve of his thigh.

Ratchet murmured Optimus' name into the kiss, his servos sliding down Optimus' lower back to his aft. He arched as Optimus' free hand found a particularly sweet spot in the joint of hip and thigh, grinding against Optimus' frame.

Electricity snapped and crackled between them. Optimus tasted it on his glossa as he bent his helm further and kissed Ratchet's neck. Ratchet tilted his helm back, giving him better access to the bare protomass underneath his jaw. Optimus found the spot just above his main sensory data track and sucked hard; Ratchet groaned, and one arm reached up to hold Optimus' helm there, a silent order to _do it again, slag it!_

They stayed like that for a long time, kissing and pressing hard against one another's bodies, reveling in the closeness. Even when the physical need had passed, Ratchet stayed curled into Optimus' frame, his servos pressed against chest plating, measuring the steady thrum of his spark.

Optimus almost didn't want to speak, afraid of spoiling the moment. “Ratchet,” he said, gently, “would you like another bonding ceremony? A public one, with friends, with clade attending?”

Ratchet looked up at him with knowing optics. “They want you to make us public?”

“Yes.” Optimus pulsed reluctance through the bond. “I want to claim you as my bonded mate,” he clarified, “but I fear the reactions of the Senate and the Cardinal Assembly. They still hold enough power to make our lives truly miserable, in earthly and social matter if not legal ones.”

Ratchet whuffed softly through his vents. “I know. We knew that it would come sooner or later, though. I know that we had hoped for later, but life seldom allows such plans to remain intact.”

Optimus cupped a hand over Ratchet's grill. “This is true.”

Ratchet smiled, placing his own servo atop Optimus'. “She'll separate from my spark soon, you know. It's nearly two full lunar cycles since.”

Optimus kissed the top of Ratchet's helm, and lowered his voice. “May I ask about her two brothers?”

Ratchet's field went somber and grey with old grief, but he pressed reassuring permission through the bond. “You can. I was going to tell you before all this happened, but I never found the right time. We were so busy.”

“We were,” Optimus agreed. “Did you name them?”

“Yes. The oldest was Silvan, the younger Turbine.” He lifted his hand, closing his fingers into a loose fist. “Turbine was this big when he was born. He greyed inside me. Silvan was a little smaller, younger.”

Optimus hummed sympathy, stroking Ratchet's side. He did not prompt him further, but Ratchet kept going of his own accord.

“I'd wanted to carry since my first ghost kindle,” he explained. “I felt it, you see. I was still in medical school at the time. It was frightening, the idea of being a parent; I'd never given the idea so much as half a thought prior. I lost it too soon for a kindle kit to pick up on the electrical pattern, but I know that I carried it for those couple of orns, and once I'd had time to consider my options, the knowledge felt _right._ —I can't describe it any other way; it was a choice that I knew was right for me.

“So I graduated university with the degrees I wanted, worked for a few dozen vorn, and tried to find partners who would be open to the idea of having a sparkling or two. Generally this meant older mecha – there weren't many my age who wanted to tie themselves down with a cadre, let alone kindle. But I met mecha whom I got along with, and who wanted to kindle with me.”

He looked up at Optimus, his expression searching. “It didn't always work out. Often we wanted sparklings more than we wanted each other. But eventually, I found a mech who loved me—whom I loved in turn.”

Ratchet smiled, his optical shutters loosening in remembered fondness. “He was... a lot like you, in some ways. Louder, and definitely sillier, but he thought a lot, and he valued kindness. He had wanted to carry his own children, but he'd had a bout of corrodia gravis long before he met me that reduced his internal reproductive mechanisms to so much slag. His name was Surge; he was a structural mechanic in the trauma department.

“We had a lot of ghost kindles at first. I only felt a couple like I did the first, but after the fifth we went to a kindling specialist. As Cogwheel said, ghost kindles come in three varieties: newsparks that unravel very early in gestation, catalytic entities—the results of a deep merge—that do not form a newspark, or an electrical phenomenon in the internal gestation mechanics that echoes the early stages of a pregnancy without the existence of a newspark to trigger it.”

Ratchet had counted the three varieties on his fingers; he tapped the tip of the third for emphasis. “I'd had two of the first type, three of the second, and twelve of the third. It was an unusual pattern – catalytic entities are common, and weak newsparks often unravel before they have the chance to fully attach to the carrier spark, but it generally takes a huge charge – of a sort generally only accessible by means of a successful deep merge – to activate one's gestational mechanics. That I'd had so many of those suggested that my mechanics were very sensitive to electrical activity, and activated on a much lower charge. It's one of the classic symptoms of hypoumbilicus.”

“Then we kindled Silvan. Just like my first ghost kindle, I felt him very early on. He lasted for two, three orn, and then longer. At the chord mark I took a kindle kit. It came out positive. Surge and I were...” he searched for a word strong enough to describe the emotions flitting through his EM field, “overjoyed, elated. Every milestone was a cause for celebration. He reached separation just fine... although when he started to detach from my spark I forgot everything I knew about sparkling development in terror that I was miscarrying.” He made a face. “In hindsight I can't blame myself, but I panicked rather spectacularly. Surge had to leave in the middle of a shift to come comfort me.”

“Oh dear,” said Optimus. “Separation is not pleasant?”

“No. But it's nothing like a miscarriage,” said Ratchet. “I know that now.”

He continued. “Soon afterward, Surge was offered a place at a seminar in Kimia. We decided to make a road trip of it, have a bit of an adventure before Silvan arrived. We followed the State Highway through the Hope Saddle, and were coming down the eastern side of the Mitteous Plateau when I started cramping. We stopped to rest on the flank of the Saddle, a little way away from the road. It was a beautiful day; the sky was deep blue and the sun was warm and bright. I'd been cramping a lot throughout my cycle, so I wasn't worried at first. Then they got a lot worse. By mid-afternoon I couldn't walk, the pain was so intense. I don't know exactly when I lost him – Surge called an emergency medic, and they took me into the Kimia University Hospital. My body didn't pass his remains on its own, and I had to undergo an evacuation abortion to get them out of me. Afterward, I hardly felt the pain. I just felt... empty.”

Optimus hugged Ratchet tighter, and kissed his helm. He didn't know what to say – what could one say to such a loss? He wrapped his EM field around Ratchet's, and said the only thing he could think of that didn't sound like a platitude. “Until all are one.”

Ratchet whuffed, as if amused. “Surge missed the seminar. He stayed beside my berth in the hospital until I was ready to leave. That's another thing he had in common with you – a ridiculously self-sacrificing nature.”

“He did the right thing,” murmured Optimus. It was strange, speaking of someone whom Ratchet had loved so much. He half felt as if he should be jealous, but instead he felt a kinship with the long-ago mech. They both loved Ratchet, after all.

Ratchet sombered. “Yes, and I was so grateful to have his support. Then, and after Turbine's death. He was more open about his grief than I was, and it somehow made it easier for me to express what I felt. Instead of keeping my emotions bottled up until they exploded, I was able to process them, and move onward.”

“That is good,” said Optimus. He shifted position, dragging his arm out from under his frame before it could cut off the hydraulic circulation. “What happened to him?”

Ratchet rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “After Turbine died, our relationship changed. We still loved each other, but it felt... different. Not lesser in any way, but, yes, different. Living together became strained, so Surge moved out for a while, to see if perhaps we just needed a break from seeing each other every day and being reminded of what we'd lost. After a while, we simply realised that what we needed from each other was friendship more than romance. So we tried that – and it worked.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Optimus.

Ratchet sighed. “No. He was a lot older than I; his spark burnt out shortly after I met you. It's a pity – I think you would have liked each other.”

Optimus pulsed slow agreement through his field. “He sounds a compassionate mech.”

“He was.” Ratchet smiled, laid his servos on his abdominal plating. “If I said I wanted to name our daughter after him, would you have any objections?”

Optimus smiled. “None whatsoever.”

“Of course, it would depend on what she's like once she's born,” said Ratchet. His expression took on a tight, somewhat fearful look. “If she makes it that far.”

“We know what is causing the trouble this time, surely,” said Optimus. He rolled into his front and propped himself up on his elbows beside Ratchet. “She should have a good chance.”

“She is budded,” said Ratchet. “That alone is cause to worry – budded sparks tend to be less dense, weaker than those kindled with a catalytic parent. If she separates, and can't hold together on her own... I _can't_ lose another child, Optimus.”

Optimus leaned over him and pressed their foreheads together. “Has Cogwheel found any reason to worry in her routine scans?”

Ratchet slowly relaxed. “No. Her umbilicus connections are low, but within the normal scope. Her frame is forming well. We've been giving her regular mineral injections in place of transfluid supplement to make sure she stays that way.”

Optimus stroked his arm. “Is there anything more we would do for her?”

“No. Not really.”

Ratchet slid his other servo on top of Optimus', twining their fingers. “I can't help worrying,” he said, his EM field dipping and whirling in self-conscious conflict. “When I woke up in the hospital in Altihex, and you told me I had kindled... I hadn't processed the situation at all. I knew that I was injured, that something huge had been done to me, something that _kills_ mecha. I was flailing, trying to find a grip on the world. But then you told me that I was carrying. And there it was, a handhold.

“And then I woke up later, and I was still carrying. I haven't told you this before, but I asked that nurse, First Aid, for some kindle kits. I tried one every day. Every time it came up positive, I felt like I could go a little further. I would be lying if I said that I hadn't considered abortion, but every day I was still carrying, I thought to myself that if I could do this, then I could do anything.”

He smiled to himself. “Even heal, maybe.”

Optimus curled his digits around Ratchet's servo. “I did worry about your choice, but I am so very glad that you were able to make it for yourself.”

Ratchet hummed, returning the affectionate clasp. “I did what was right for myself at the time, and I don't regret any of it.”

He met Optimus' gaze, anxious but steady. “Now we just have to wait until she emerges.”

* * *

 

Optimus tapped his digits against the smooth steel surface of his work desk, trying to ignore the expectant glare of the studio lights. His spark lurched with nerves.

Elita One stood to the side of the desk, her arms folded and her dark face frowning. She was flanked by her two aides, Lancer and Mistral, beta-ranked Towersmecha who wore frowns to echo her own. A technician fiddled with the viewfinder in front of Optimus' desk. The Speaker of the High Council, a light jet named Cumulus, drew his wings together with an irritable frown as the camera operators hurried past with a pair of large lights.

Near the door of the Primal offices, the chairman of Cassiopeia Works Media was immersed in rapid, enthusiastic discussion with an official of the Imperial Household Agency. Ironhide lurked in a shadowy corner, giving the other bodyguards arrayed throughout the room suspicious, narrow-opticked glares.

Optimus gave his script a last-minute once-over, as thought it hadn't been triple- and quadruple-checked by his media office already. He took a last gulp of mid-grade to calm his tanks, then tucked the half-finished cube away in his desk drawer.

The camera operators trained their lenses on him. Somewhere, a countdown began.

He vented, slowly and evenly, rested his hands on the desktop.

The Household Agency official raised three digits. After a moment, he lowered them one by one.

Optimus took a deep vent.

“Good evening, Cybertron,” he began. “Today I have a personal announcement to share with you...”


	11. Chapter 10

_lift yourself up, it's a brand new day_   
_so turn yourself round_   
_don't burn yourself, turn yourself around into the sun_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

Optimus left the Senate complex immediately after the broadcast. Heads turned to watch him go by, silence spreading out in rippling waves around him. Soon he had to disconnect his message center from the Datanet and turn off his comm channels, both official and private; the sheer amount of message notifications was threatening to send the programs into overload.

His bodyguards – the full Primal complement today, Ironhide at their head – surrounded him from every angle. Two rotaries flew low over the road, protecting him from above. For the two-block drive from the Council Towers to the Iacon Sanctuary and the accompanying Palace of Primes, it would ordinarily have seemed an overcaution to Optimus.

Not today. His media office had already fielded three death threats.

They pulled into the front gates of the Palace. The helos hovered as Optimus and his groundbound bodyguards transformed, then folded out of altmode and lit neatly on the tiled forecourt. A stream of Household Agency employees hurried out to meet them, two brightly-painted alpha Towersmecha at their head.

His bodyguards parted, allowing the alphas through.

Optimus dipped his helm in a brief acknowledgement. “Lord Mistral.”

The Lord of the Aurora Clan clasped his hands over his spark and bowed. “Lord Prime. I owe you and your bondmate congratulations; may your life together be long and fortunate.”

The second alpha bowed with a little less ceremony. It was Mirage, dressed up in the rich lacquers and thin wirecloth adornments the nobility habitually wore in public. The difference between his alpha and SpecOps personae could hardly have been more stark.

Optimus took Mistral's hands and raised him up, then nodded to Mirage. “My thanks, Lords.”

They moved into the Palace's entrance hall, surrounded by bodyguards and Agency employees. Mistral engaged him in fluent small talk, enquiring after the weather and the state of the famous gardens in the First City, and sharing in return a description of an art and statuary exhibition in the Enlightenment Forum's municipal gallery which he had attended recently. They made their way down the west wing hallway, and reached the private sitting room in which Optimus had held many impromptu councils of war.

Inside was another figure, an unassuming light standard in a teal and silver paintjob. Kup turned as the door opened, and quickly took a smoking cygar out of his mouth.

“You've really stirred the wumpbee's nest this, time, haven't you?” he said, grinning. He nodded to Mistral and Mirage, then strode over to Optimus and patted his forearm. “Congratulations, Prime. You've been a lot of good for Ratchet, and I think he's the same for you.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said, smiling down at the Captain of the Primal Vanguard. Apparently Kup had forgiven him for the promotion.

He took his favourite seat, a deep high-backed chair with cushioned armrests, and watched as the others found their own. Kup remained standing, replacing the cygar in his mouth and bumping his knuckles against Ironhide's shoulder. The two alphas sat elegantly on the long couch, Mirage leaning forward with his servos in his lap while Mistral rested back against the pile of cushions that occupied one end.

A portable comunit beeped. Mistral took it from inside a well-hidden pocket of wirecloth on his thigh and inspected the message. “Amberglass of the Winter Snow wishes me to enquire as to your mental state,” he reported, as diplomatically as one could given the content of the message. A second beep of the unit, and his expression very carefully did not change. “She also wishes to clarify that that was not a comment upon your choice of bondmate, rather an observation of the political climate inside which you bonded him. However, she stands by her original message.”

Amberglass was the leader of a sizeable party within the Senate, a conservative Functionist by personal nomination. She had worked with Optimus for several decades thus far on the dismantling of the indentured education-employment system, a legal extension of the slave-labour system which had borne the worst excesses of the later Golden Age. Her concern, Optimus gathered, was out of fear for the work which they had already done, and her blunt wording was at least typical of her manner. It stung, nevertheless.

“Inform her that I retain control over my cognitive processes, and would like to know how close to my desk her quarterly report is. The current political climate is unfortunate, but only one of the factors governing my decision to bond; I will let her know of the others when it is her business to know.”

Mistral relayed the message. “She does have a point, in that you have squandered a rather large political advantage. There is a reason the nobility seldom bond for love.”

“I know,” said Optimus. He clasped his hands in his lap and frowned down at his knuckles. “We did discuss it, prior to bonding. Ratchet is aware that he has neither the rank nor the experience to fulfil the role of a traditional Consort, and that we do not have the time to allow him to learn.”

“Elita One and Nimbus have, in a way, mitigated the effect of your lack of Consort,” Mirage said, naming the head of the Imperial Household Agency alongside Optimus' longtime friend. “Ignoring for a moment the wumpbees, do you intend to continue with your deputy system?”

“What other option do I have?” asked Optimus.

Mistral tapped an idle finger against his forearm. “Several. Give Elita and Nimbus – and others, if necessary, perhaps one from each major faction within the Senate – a formal rank which specifies their duties in negotiating and acting on behalf of the Primacy within the lay world, and return the role of a Consort to a personal partnership, thus allowing Ratchet to be named in that position. You might continue negotiations for a Consort, expanding your bond with Ratchet to a trinary group – although you might have problems in convincing the upper classes of the propriety of that course of action. Or, as Mirage says, you might simply continue assigning Elita and Nimbus to the duties that would normally fall to a Consort. However, that may not work very well as a long-term measure.”

“The second one's probably the simplest,” said Kup. He took the cigar from his mouth and crossed the room, pulling a decanter of rich burgundy high-grade from the cooler in the corner. “Remind the kids that plenty of the Golden Age Primes had trinary bonds, and more. Especially if you make it a legal bond rather than a physical one – there's not a whole lot of difference between that, and keeping a private lover around. Eh, Mistral?”

Mistral rolled his optics. “There is a little difference. My relationship with Ourea and Lodestone is hardly comparable.”

“Oh, there is a little,” said Mirage, the tiniest of smiles playing at his painted lips. “I'm sure that Ourea would love to welcome Lodestone into your bond if she was given the opportunity.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” frowned Mistral, “but I am not Prime.”

“Yet you are the lord and master of one of the largest and most prosperous Towers clans in Iacon,” said Mirage. “In any case, I agree with Kup's assessment. The plan requires less modification of the traditional systems of Primal power. This is not to say that you should embark upon it immediately,” he hastened to add, “but that if the current system fails, you will have a backup plan in place.”

Optimus considered the plan. “I will think on it,” he allowed, though privately he thought the chance of finding a mech who was able to fill the position from the Iaconian nobility, the traditional wellspring of Consorts, and compatible with both himself and Ratchet, was very low.

“You do that,” said Kup, and poured himself a tall glass of high-grade. “Energon, anyone?”

 

* * *

 

The berthroom in the Primal suite was perhaps the grandest and most ostentatious room in the entire Palace. For a building constructed at the height of the Golden Age, in which more than one room had been leafed with pure platinum, this was saying something.

Ratchet stopped in mid-stride, halfway through the double doors, and gaped.

Optimus made his way across the rose quartz-tiled floor to the massive double-padded berth, and sat, smiling back at his bondmate. “It does take some getting used to, doesn't it?”

“Unicron on a flying cyberrat's aft,” Ratchet exclaimed, taking a long step into the room and turning in a slow circle to take it all in. Crystal and copper chandeliers hung from the dark red-painted ceiling, reflecting tiny points of sunlight all around the room. “I'm sure I don't want to know how much this is all worth. How high is that ceiling? And is that—Primus below, that _is_ diamond inlay in the frescoes on the wall over there. Where in the Empire did they get that many diamonds of that size?”

Optimus bent to open the small cupboard beside the head of the berth, collecting his treasure from inside. “According to the Palace records, they came from a mid-sized rocky planet in the far Benzuli Expanse. Prospectors happened upon large, high-quality deposits of pressurized carbons. The Empire has never annexed any planet so quickly, before or since.”

Ratchet stared up at the frescoes carved into the far wall of the berthroom. They reached from the floor to the ceiling some fifteen mechanometers above – almost three times Optimus' height – and were illuminated with gold, copper and platinum leaf. At the bottom, near the floor, the carvings depicted stories from the later Books of History, chronicles of the mortal mecha whom had built the Cybertronian Empire from the scattered tribes of the First Generation after the Cataclysm. Most of the scenes illustrated were those of heroism and piety, though not all – Optimus had once found an exquisitely detailed depiction of the founder of the Cybertronian Empire, Kathismon Prime, and his mating to the leader of the Austral _rus_ , Towerlight.

The next tier of carvings reached from five to eight mechanometers above the ground, and illustrated the stories of the original Dynasty of Primes. Where Optimus had sometimes struggled to put names to faces among the lower tier, these mecha required no background research. The Cousins' War played out on the berthroom wall, reaching from its origins during Abyssus' Regency over Rhodian Prime at the windowmost end of the wall to Enceladion's Ascension and Persephone's sacrifice and destruction of Pyroxene's Haunt at the other.

The third and uppermost tier simply depicted Primus, in His aspects as the Sun and Stars, and the creation of the Thirteen. Rays of godlight shone down from this upper level to illuminate the Primes of the lower tiers, a symbolic representation of their divine right to rule.

Optimus touched the central seam between his pectoral armor plates, conscious as always of the Matrix tied into his systems beneath it.

Here and there the illustration was dotted with crystals, Cybertron's native self-perpetuating silicates and foreign carbon gems. Ratchet lifted his hand as if to trace the delicate line of rubies wrapped around an Imperial slave's neck, then visibly thought better of it.

“Primus below,” he said, voice hushed. “I haven't seen anything like this in a long time.”

Optimus set the crystal decanters of rich oils and temporary paint down on the berthside table. “It is an incredible work of art,” he agreed. “But you see why I prefer not to occupy this room alone.”

Ratchet glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I do. It's far too large for one person. You need someone else to distract you from the grandeur.”

Optimus hummed, reaching out to Ratchet and drawing him into the berth. “And to share it. My love, my mate.”

Ratchet settled into Optimus' arms, cupping his hands against his abdominal plating. He turned his helm into Optimus' affectionate kiss, his chevron brushing over Optimus' lips.

Optimus laid his hands over Ratchet's. “How do you feel?” he murmured.

“A little sore, still,” Ratchet admitted. He had had terrible cramps last night, strong enough that even an X-positive painkiller chip had done little to quell them. They'd visited the Iacon Imperial hospital that dawnshift, to make sure that the pain had not been the beginnings of another miscarriage, but the doctors had assured them that both spark and frame were well. They had given Ratchet a prescription for double-X chips, then sent them back to the Palace to recuperate. “It's going, though.”

 

“Good,” said Optimus.

He brushed his fingertips over the plating below Ratchet's grill, at first without realising what he was doing. Then Ratchet's engine skipped, and gave a halting rev. Optimus stopped, worrying that he'd overstepped his boundaries – but Ratchet pushed pleasure and arousal through the bond.

Optimus resumed his ministrations. “You are enjoying that?”

“Yes,” Ratchet laughed. He pushed back against Optimus' shoulder, straightening his backstruts. “Although I wouldn't object to a little lower.”

Optimus vented in amusement. He slid his hand down between Ratchet's thighs, pushing them apart, and cupped his palm over Ratchet's array panels. There was warmth beneath the metal, still faint. “Is this closer to what you had in mind?”

“Perfect,” Ratchet purred.

He braced his hands against Optimus' chassis, and pushed his hips up into the touch. “This was never going to be a berth for recharging in, was it?”

Optimus dipped his fingers into the gap between Ratchet's pelvic and thigh plating, teasing the sensors around the joint. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Ratchet said, spreading his legs further apart. “Perhaps it was the size of it. You could fit a shuttle on here. Or perhaps it was those carvings on the bedhead. They're rather illustrative.”

Optimus glanced back at the furniture in question. Mecha in various intimate poses occupied every surface. If he'd thought that Kathismon and Towerlight had been captured in particular dedication to detail, these were downright pornographic.

“Another reason I try not to recharge here alone,” he rumbled, stroking Ratchet's inner thighs, an erogenous zone that both of them quite enjoyed. “It makes me feel rather inadequate.”

Historically, many Primes had in fact recharged elsewhere, reserving the big room for entertaining lovers and Consorts. Optimus could well see why.

He had been discomfited by the carvings at first, reminded abjectly of his own experiences with sexuality and everything that had come of it. Then Ratchet had come into his life, and, very slowly, he had learned to embrace that part of himself once again.

Ratchet squirmed in his arms, his frame heating. Underneath his pelvic plating, Optimus' array came roaring to life.

“I felt that,” Ratchet observed. His optics were bright, his EM field vivid with eager arousal. “Oh, Optimus, I want this.”

“Keep talking to me,” said Optimus, murmuring into Ratchet's audial. “Tell me everything you want, all you feel.”

He looked across to the bedside table, at his collection of jars, and mentally selected one of the largest. He picked it up, tested the weight in one hand. It was lighter than he would have liked, but with any luck there would be enough left to make good use of.

Ratchet took it out of his hand, searching for a label. “What is this?”

“Open it, and find out,” Optimus suggested.

Ratchet promptly did so. He dipped a finger into the thick, translucent concoction inside, and gave an approving hum. “Thermal lubricant.”

He sank back into Optimus' arms, and stared at his finger. “It's almost prickling. Radium?”

“And a little argon, for moderation,” said Optimus. He wiped the excess off of Ratchet's digit with his own, and the sensation kicked in almost immediately. “It comes with Elita's recommendation.”

Ratchet exvented. “It's certainly very strong.”

“Too strong?” Optimus asked.

Ratchet's optics widened. “Certainly not. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to finding out exactly how strong it is.”

He scooped a fingerful of the stuff out of the jar, and gave Optimus a thoughtful look. Then he reached up and smeared the stuff all over Optimus' left audial.

Optimus tossed his helm and groaned. “That is very potent.”

He took the jar from Ratchet's hand, painted a streak of lubricant down his chest. Ratchet drew a glyph beneath his windshield in retaliation. Soon they were both covered with thick goop, vents wide open and fans running hard.

Ratchet took Optimus' servo, and, venting hard, pressed it to his chest. His EM field whirled around his frame, extending far in excitement. Optimus stroked the seam of Ratchet's chestplates, his neural net tingling all over. His core locks released with an audible click.

Ratchet turned himself in Optimus' lap until they faced each other. His chestplates folded apart, his core armor glistening silver underneath before that too parted, and the brilliant orange light of his spark shone out of his open spark chamber.

Optimus put his hands on Ratchet's waist and opened his own chest. Vivid blue light reflected off the planes of Ratchet's chassis.

Ratchet braced his hands on Optimus' shoulders, and brought their chests together.

Optimus bowed his helm against Ratchet's at the first lick of their sparks. Molten metal thrummed through his neural net, making him arch and tighten his arms around Ratchet's frame. Ratchet murmured something into his neck; he felt the vibration of the sound rather than heard it. Their sparks met, corona to corona, pressing against each other. Then something gave, and they were no longer separate.

Fire and magma wrapped around Optimus' frame, white steam billowing into the thundery atmosphere. The sky was dark, the ground cracked charcoal beneath his back.

Light roiled in his arms, molten rock streaked through with brilliant copper. Drifts of quartz and obsidian collected where they met. Dark crystalline eyes peered out of deep sockets in a grey, cracked face. The flaws split open as Ratchet moved, pulling himself up Optimus' body, but what came through this time was not ichor but fire. It licked against the watery stillness of Optimus' skin, and steam hissed and spat into the space between them, torn away into the atmosphere by a sharp, cold wind.

The spectral forms they took during merges had always varied – but never by this much.

Optimus wrapped himself around the fiery apparition, kissing and stroking until the molten skin cooled into crystal. The ground fell out from under their backs, deep black space opening up around them. Ratchet pressed himself into Optimus' chest and became a star, blazing in the depths. Optimus held him close, a nebula, water cooling to ice crystals and catching Ratchet's light.

Solar prominences flashed. A dark line zigzagged across Ratchet's corona; he split open around the flaw, blinding white light pouring from inside him. Optimus sank into the light, reaching into Ratchet's heart. He caught a taste of slick ice, unaffected by the heat, and a burgeoning curiosity.

Wonder struck him. This must be the newspark.

He wove his fingers around the icy singularity, freezing solid where he came too close, and cupped it to his chest. Frost crackled over his lines. He understood the change in Ratchet's form now – it was balance, counteracting the newspark's frozen influence.

Tendrils of warmth brushed over his face. Obsidian hands took the newspark, replacing it within the blazing heat of Ratchet's chest. Magma sealed over the opening, and when Optimus laid his hands against Ratchet's obsidian skin, boiling off into steam, he could feel no trace of the new life sheltered within.

Fiery arms looped around his waist, fingers tracing patterns into his back. They pressed together, chest to chest; he lost sight of Ratchet among the steam. He blinked to clear his vision, and the darkness at his peripheral vision faded away.

He found himself back on the big berth in the real world, Ratchet collapsed against his chest, held tight in his arms.

Electricity played across their armour, tiny flickers of lightning leaping from plate to plate. Ratchet stirred in his arms, his engine skipping. Optimus felt the tug of loss as their sparks separated again.

“She's alive,” Ratchet croaked, pushing himself up for long enough to close his chestplates again. “Oh, Optimus, Optimus, she knows you now.”

“Yes,” said Optimus, the word breathy and awestruck, “and I know her in turn.”

Ratchet pulled himself up Optimus' frame and kissed him, hard and desperate. Optimus stroked Ratchet's back, wrapping his EM field around them both, and gradually Ratchet calmed. The kiss became softer, sweeter.

The sensation of the thermal lubricant had been temporarily overwhelmed by the deluge of sensory data produced by the merge. As they came down from the post-merge high, the prickling shallow warmth returned. Their touches became needy caresses. Ratchet's hands found Optimus' audials, stroking and squeezing; Optimus' servos dipped lower on Ratchet's back until he reached his aft, fingertips teasing the rear edge of Ratchet's valve panel.

Ratchet vented hard, and his panel snapped open. Lubricant wet the tips of Optimus' digits.

“Do you want this?” Optimus asked. Ratchet's optics were closed, his ventilator fans spinning fast. “Ratchet?”

Ratchet nodded. “I do.”

He braced his hands on Optimus' forearms and rocked his hips, forward and back, against Optimus' pelvic span. His external components, swollen with charge, pressed against Optimus' spike panel.

Optimus held back a groan at the sensory data. He grasped Ratchet's thighs, sweeping his thumbs over the inner seams, and pulled Ratchet forward until he perched over Optimus' waist instead. He slid one arm behind Ratchet's aft, and wrapped the other around his waist. Then, slowly, carefully, he sat up.

The new position put them on a much closer level. Ratchet tilted his face up to kiss Optimus again, his glossa teasing at Optimus' lower lip.

Optimus had other ideas, however. He traced his fingers over the contours of Ratchet's aft, his servo dipping between Ratchet's legs. He found Ratchet's valve folds, pressed between them with two fingers and rubbed the tight ring of his entrance.

Ratchet broke the kiss, groaning in ecstasy. He pushed his hips down, and Optimus' fingertip slipped inside him.

“Slowly,” Optimus cautioned with a quick kiss to Ratchet's forehelm. “You are still very tight.”

“I know,” said Ratchet. He tucked his face into the curve of Optimus' neck and vented through his mouth, his main fans stalling. “I'll try to be patient.”

“Now that will be a sight,” Optimus smiled. Ratchet huffed, but his EM field lifted and whirled amusement in reply.

Then he was gasping again as Optimus thrust his finger deeper into his valve, withdrawing once his knuckle met the clutching rim, then inward again, slowly, gently. Ratchet's channel was hot and wet around his finger, clenching tight in rippling, dragging motions that he imagined would feel incredible around his spike. But it did not relax between spasms, which told Optimus that, however eager to be penetrated Ratchet's conscious mind was, there was a part of him that was objectively not.

 

He teased the tip of his index finger around the swollen external folds, rubbing Ratchet's anterior node cluster through the mesh which shielded it. An overload might be sufficient to relax his internal components. It was worth an attempt, surely?

 

Optimus withdrew, and pressed his index and middle fingertips together, pressing them into Ratchet's channel. The calipers gave, but grudgingly. He thrust the fingers shallowly into Ratchet, aiming for the front wall of his channel, a favourite sweet spot. “Is this comfortable?”

Ratchet grunted, arching his back. “Oh—Optimus, that's a good angle. It's... tight, but I think—” He broke off with a sharp moan. “Primus. Right in the ceiling node.”

“I wonder,” Optimus mused aloud, “if we might be more successful in a different position?”

Ratchet eyeballed him for a moment. “It's worth a try.”

He drew his legs up and knelt with one knee on either side of Optimus' hips. Optimus pulled his fingers out – dripping with Ratchet's internal lubricant – and helped him lay back on the berth.

Ratchet made a face, and his spark whirled, agitated. “Too flat.” His hands gravitated to the suddenly more obvious bulge of his abdominal plating, stroking the curve that housed their sparkling.

“Might cushions help?” Optimus suggested. “Behind your back and shoulders, perhaps your aft as well, something to lift you up.”

Ratchet sat up, but the vibration of his field turned thoughtful. “That could work. It... sounds comfortable, if nothing else.”

“Then we shall try it,” said Optimus.

He clambered off the berth, crossing to the lounge suite near the courtyard doors, and filched an armful of soft, rich mesh cushions from the seldom-used chairs. Returning to the berth, he arranged them behind Ratchet, building them up until Ratchet wasn't so much lying down as reclining against a mountain of mesh. At Ratchet's direction he stuffed an extra one behind the small of his back, and one each beneath his thighs. “How do you feel?”

Ratchet's optics fluttered closed. “I stand by my earlier statement. I feel like a Towersmech – pampered and brilliant. I can feel my ego inflating by the klik.”

Optimus smiled. “I take it that this is a good thing?”

“Oh, _yes._ ” Ratchet cracked his optics open and gave Optimus a sly look. “Why don't you come join me?”

He spread his legs, and his still-open valve glistened enticingly under the light of the bedside lamps. Optimus' spike knocked against its cover.

He climbed back onto the berth, slowly and deliberately.

Ratchet smiled, his EM field curling flirtatiously around Optimus'. “Come on,” he said, reaching between his legs with one hand and manually spreading his external mesh apart. “I waited vorn to bond you, and I do not regret a second of it, but by the Unmaker I might throw something if I don't get you back inside me as soon as possible.”

“A persuasive argument,” Optimus rumbled, kneeling between Ratchet's spread thighs. “Does it matter which part of myself is used?”

“Not so long as it ends with your spike in my valve,” said Ratchet, resting his helm against the pillows. “I'm tired of knowing that you weren't the last mech to overload inside me.”

Optimus nodded silently. What could one say to that?

He took Ratchet's hand, pushing it up until it rested above the medic's spike panel. The panel remained closed, as it had since they had begun trying. He traced his fingertips from Ratchet's own, down across his valve mesh, circling the hidden anterior cluster, and down between the mesh folds to Ratchet's entrance.

This time he started with two fingers. Again, Ratchet was hot and wet, but very tight. Optimus curled his fingertips up as he thrust, aiming for Ratchet's ceiling node. Ratchet arched, riding the movements, and cried out as Optimus' fingers hit the edge of the node cluster. His calipers relaxed somewhat; Optimus tried three fingers, but quickly decided that it hadn't been enough.

 _What else can I do?_ he wondered. He watched Ratchet gasp, and lick his lips, and the answer came to him in a thought.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked. He buried his fingers knuckle-deep inside Ratchet, waited until his overbright optics focused on him, and asked, “Might I use my mouth on your valve?”

Ratchet was nodding even before he'd finished the sentence. “Yes, yes _please!_ ”

Optimus crouched between his thighs, but the angle was awkward, and he ended up lying prone on the berth, his upper body supported on his elbows. He toyed with Ratchet's external folds for a short while, watching the way his stretched entrance quivered and pushing back the mesh hood around his anterior cluster to inspect the bare, sparking nodes. Soon Ratchet's hands were on his, pulling them away while his mate urged him to “ _do it, do it, please, Optimus!”_

 

When his pleas reached a pitch unheard for a very long time, Optimus took pity on him. He lowered his helm and pressed his mouth to the anterior sector of Ratchet's valve, above the node cluster. His glossa slid out to taste Ratchet, tracing the edges of the folds and dipping between them for the deeper neural clusters. He mouthed the anterior node, sucking on the surrounding mesh, alternating between hard and soft until Ratchet shouted and scrabbled at Optimus' helm.

Optimus moved away then, planning to give the sensitive node a rest. He moved lower, hunching awkwardly, and swept his glossa around Ratchet's channel. The neural clusters were thickest around the entrance calipers, and he knew through personal experience that shallow penetration – as of an exploratory glossa – gave the maximum of sensory data without the electrical charge delivered by a spike. He pressed between the swollen wet folds and pushed his glossa into the clenching channel.

Ratchet gave a sharp cry, arching against the pillows. His channel rippled ecstatically, and his digits clawed at Optimus' helm, trying to force him deeper.

Withdrawing his glossa, Optimus licked the opening and then sucked, teasing the mechanisms into loosening. He persisted for several times, then returned his mouth to the anterior node. He brought his fingers to Ratchet's entrance and pushed them in, two at a time, thrusting lightly. The positioning was awkward and he resigned himself to waking up with a crick in his neck the following day, but the noises Ratchet made were making it entirely worth it. Shouted oaths, drawn-out moans and broken renditions of Optimus' name, a nearly continuous litany.

Ratchet lasted for minutes of this treatment, his internal mechanisms steadily loosening until Optimus could easily fit three fingers inside him. Ratchet moaned his loss as he pulled out, but the disappointed vibrato in his EM field quickly turned exultant as Optimus pulled his legs up and open by the knees, arranging himself between them.

Ratchet reached for his spike as he released it, catching hold of the flared head and refamiliarising himself with its contours. Optimus let him touch for as long as he liked, watching his frame for second thoughts through the flood of pleasure data swamping his sensory cortex. It really had been a long time.

He reached for his jars of treasures, taking up a plain lubricant this time. He scooped a generous amount out of the jar, and Ratchet helped him spread the cool, slick gel all over his spike.

Eventually, Ratchet gave a short nod. “Put it in me. Go slow, but do it.”

“As you will, old friend.” Optimus angled himself, guiding the tip to Ratchet's entrance. He shuttered his optics and concentrated for a moment on the sensation of Ratchet's folds parting around him, the entrance calipers sliding open and ready, then, slowly, pushed inside.

Heat and wetness and tight, tight bliss. He stopped midway, pulled out, and thrust inside again, a little faster. Calipers rippled around him, squeezing snug, but loosening as they became used to his girth.

Emboldened, Optimus tried a deeper thrust. Ratchet's legs tensed around him. He onlined his optics, checking Ratchet's expression. It was taut, overwhelmed, but none of it was pain. His EM field flattened close to his frame, then exploded outward in a wash of pleasure, wavelengths laced with the taste of victory. “Yes,” Ratchet groaned, “oh, _yes!_ ”

Electricity flashed between them, lighting up their arrays at the peak of each thrust. Charge nodes matched with trigger nodes, friction and heat building up until their neural nets throbbed with the sensory overload. System notifications flickered on all over Optimus' HUD, high-temperature and spark stress flags that marked the approach of a rather fantastic overload. He wiped the internal screen clear, focusing on the expression on Ratchet's face, slack mouth and wide, bright optics, the way Ratchet's hands had crept up to cover his, the way they clutched at him each time he hilted himself inside that hot wet valve.

Overload struck. Optimus went rigid, holding himself deep inside, grinding against Ratchet's pelvic array as if he could go deeper. His ventilator fans stalled, and he felt the throb as his body did what Ratchet had asked and spurted transfluid deep inside him.

Ratchet had overloaded near-simultaneously. He relaxed from his death-grip, his valve rippling in rapid aftershocks. His expression clouded, and his EM field went still, as though he didn't want Optimus to read his emotions.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked, concerned. “Are you well?”

He went to pull out, but Ratchet's hands on his waist stopped him.

“No, don't,” Ratchet murmured. His voice was tired, vocaliser crackling with the aftereffects of the electrical surge. “I'm just... coming to terms with something. I wanted this. Still want it, I mean.”

Optimus went slowly to his elbows, gathering Ratchet's frame in his arms. “Tell me when you're ready. I will not go until then.”

Ratchet buried his face in his windshield. “I love you.”

Optimus smiled, and kissed the crown of his helm. “Likewise, old friend.”

 

* * *

 

Life gradually returned to a semblance of normal. The High Council stopped throwing collective tantrums every time he walked into the room; the Senate returned to an average decibel level only slightly higher than that of a busy inner-city street. The death threats and calls for his penance dried up after the first few days, after Elita mentioned offhandedly on a live interview one day that both, when directed at a ruling Prime, were still technically punishable by execution.

(Optimus wasn't sure he approved of that method, but he had had to acknowledge its simple efficacy.)

He and Ratchet gave their first joint interview on a well-respected talk show. By that point, Ratchet's pregnancy had been impossible to hide. The show's host, like many others in her profession, had seemed much taken with the romance of a kindle so close after a successful bonding. She tactfully glossed over the details, for which Optimus was grateful. He alluded to Ratchet's capture and stressful recovery (happenstance of which was common knowledge, though not the exact circumstances) when her questions got too detailed, at which point Ratchet put on an impressive display of subtle emotion and thoroughly derailed the previous conversation topic.

The system of the Primacy had historically relied primarily upon the support of the small but fantastically rich upper classes, with little attention paid to the approval (or not) of the ninety-seven percent of the population that ranked at tier four or below. By the end of the show, Optimus had achieved a near-complete reversal of that ideal.

“All things considered,” began Ratchet, as they arrived back at the Palace that evening, “I think that was a good day's work.”

Optimus thanked the bodyguards and dismissed them. “It is a start,” he agreed, keying in the code to his private residences. “There will be more of the same tomorrow.”

Ratchet sighed through his vents, pressing one hand against his abdominal plating. “Perfect. I always wanted to be a celebrity.”

Optimus smiled at the level sarcasm, and sent off a confirmation of appointment to his media office. “It is not always this busy. Cybertron simply wants to know who I have bonded.”

“Well, good. I want to get back to work.”

Optimus watched Ratchet meander through the apartment, opening coolers and cupboards in search of mid-grade. Wherever he went, he would never be short of job offers. The Northern States College of Iacon had snapped him up for their medical college board as soon as he had made it known that he intended to return to Iacon. It was for the most part a desk job, allowing him to rest when he needed it and work from home on the days when his cramps became particularly painful. He taught a graduate class on advanced structural mechanics once a chord, and seemed to enjoy it, though he always came home with a litany of complaints.

He found a decanter of mid-grade in the kitchenette cooler, and poured himself a glass, then offered the decanter to Optimus.

Optimus shook his helm. “No, thank you.” He sat down in the deep-backed chair by the courtyard door and gazed out at the darkening sky.

It was early autumn in Iacon, and the short nights were lengthening. Faint aurorae flickered across the horizon, the spires of Iacon's central hive glimmering in the remnants of sunset. Soon the date would move into the vigil season of the Ascension of Prima, and the Dance of Farewell.

The sparkling was due sometime after Farewell. The exact time depended on a variety of factors; frame type, spark spectra, Ratchet's general health. 

Ratchet appeared from around the end of the kitchenette bar, carrying a platter of iridium-dusted rust sticks. He sat in the low-backed chair next to Optimus', and placed the platter on the small table between them. “I can't tempt you with a rust stick?”

Optimus smiled, and took one. “Perhaps in moderation.”

Ratchet's EM field swirled comfortably around his frame. He took a long sip of his energon, and nibbled on the end of a stick.

Rust sticks were a little sweeter than Optimus preferred, but one or two was a pleasant snack. And he did enjoy the crunch of the rust.

They sat and nibbled in silence, watching the aurorae. The Palace of Primes, like the rest of the Forums, was built on top of the high-ground ridge running between the Iacon East end of the hive city and the northernmost of the Observatories. The courtyard boasted a wide open view of the northeastern sector of Iacon, and the Polar Flats far distant. From such a height, the Imperial capital seemed almost calm.

Ratchet broke the silence with a harsh grunt.

Optimus turned to him. “Ratchet, are you well?”

Optics shuttered and EM field drawn tight, Ratchet held up a hand to forestall his worries. “I think—I just went into separation.”

Optimus crouched by his chair, gathering Ratchet's servos into his own. “Is there anything you need?”

Ratchet's servos tightened around his. “Help me stand up.”

Optimus looped his arm around Ratchet's waist, and carefully helped him lever himself into a shaky, but upright slump. Ratchet managed two steps on his own, then fell against Optimus' side.

“Definitely separation,” he grimaced. “Call the hospital.”

Then he threw up all over Optimus' chassis.

Optimus made an executive decision and hauled them both into the washracks. A fine misty spray made Ratchet retch uncontrollably, but a hard, cold shower took his mind off the nausea.

The hospital was close by; the ambulance arrived while Optimus was cleaning the regurgitated energon out from underneath his windshield. The EMTs assured Optimus that such nausea was normal for a carrier undergoing separation, then helped Ratchet into the enclosed rear of the ambulance and drove off, followed by half the Palace's complement of bodyguards.

The hospital was an exclusive private one, chosen both for its location and for its highly-skilled gestational mechanics team. Cogwheel, the department head, met Optimus outside the private room they had set aside for high-risk carriers.

“How is he?” Optimus asked. “There are no problems?”

Cogwheel smiled, her main set of optics blinking. “He is fine. We have our strongest spectral monitors observing the process, but thus far everything has happened as it should, and I am optimistic that it should continue thus.”

Optimus' hydraulics relaxed, his shoulders slumping with the force of his relief. Though Ratchet had told him that separation would be an unpleasant business, the speed at which it had come on had been a shock.

Cogwheel opened the door, ushering him inside. “He is currently undergoing the first stage of the process, in which the newspark detaches from his own spark and approaches the duct which will take it down to his gestation chamber. This can last from anywhere between a few minutes to over a joor – it varies by carrier.”

Ratchet looked up from the hospital berth, and smiled when he caught sight of Optimus. “With my sons it was a little under a quarter-joor. Not long, fortunately.”

Optimus strode around the berth, avoiding the rank of machines that were plugged into Ratchet's medical ports, and sat down in the guest chair. It was a little small for him, but he barely noticed, taking Ratchet's servo and squeezing affectionately. “Does the amount of time make a difference?”

Cogwheel answered. “Not so much, no. In the very shortest separations, it can increase the risk of destabilising the newspark, but Ratchet is already out of that danger period.” She inspected the readout on a monitor above the foot of the berth and smiled. “The newspark is separating very neatly. Textbook, almost.”

Ratchet shuttered his optics. “Can I have another stabiliser chip? I think I'm going to purge again.”

“Yes, you may.” Cogwheel took a small chip out of the berthside drawer, opened Ratchet's ventral ports, and inserted the chip. Ratchet made a face, venting slowly, but after a moment his EM field settled and his optics brightened once more.

The last of Optimus' worry eased. He leaned forward, stroking Ratchet's chevron. “How long will the entire process last?”

“It should be a couple of joor, give or take a few kliks,” said Cogwheel. “After that, it takes roughly seven chords for the newspark to integrate with its frame. Ratchet could begin to feel movement from the sparkling in the next couple of orns.”

Ratchet squeezed Optimus' hand, his EM field whirling. Optimus and Cogwheel smiled down at him – his excitement was contagious.

“If you don't mind, however, I would like to keep you in overnight,” Cogwheel continued, speaking directly to Ratchet. “Separation can be strenuous in even a perfectly standard carrying cycle, which yours unfortunately isn't. I don't foresee any problems as of now, but I think the peace of mind of immediate medical assistance would be beneficial to you even if you don't require it. It also means that I can discuss with you your plans for the rest of the cycle and for the birth, in person.”

Ratchet considered the idea, then nodded. “Yes, I don't mind. I hadn't really thought about planning, to be honest. Every time I think about the future, I start worrying.”

Cogwheel smiled, and pulled up a second chair. “Then, perhaps, now is a good time to discuss it.”

Ratchet looked back at Optimus, and the corners of his mouth lifted into a tired smile. “I want to give birth naturally, if I can. But I've been researching on my own, and what I have found seems to indicate that that might be difficult or impossible for me.”

Cogwheel produced a slim datapad and made a note. “Hesitantly, I do agree. Initial scans suggest that your sparkling is going to be a heavy standard like yourself, perhaps a hesperidus-class, and they tend to gestate large. Your internal capacity is going to be stressed by the time her spark integrates fully.”

Ratchet vented slowly, staring at the ceiling. “In that case, what do you suggest?”

“Well, there is no harm in aiming for a natural birth,” Cogwheel said. “Just don't pin all your hopes on it, and remember that if it doesn't happen, you are no less of a parent for it.”

“Good advice,” observed Optimus.

Cogwheel gave him a quick smile. “We plan for things, but we must be prepared for those plans to go awry. It is seldom a comment on our abilities as doctors and mecha, but simply an expression of the universe's native chaos.” She took up a new datapad, thicker than the one in her hands, and passed it to Ratchet. “This is a detailed explanation of the different procedures which we often use in cases such as yours, both as assistance to a natural birth and in surgical birth. If you would like to read it while I take a further set of scans, we can discuss your options and preferences afterward.”

Ratchet took it, and beckoned to Optimus. Internal comms crackled to life.

:: _You should see this as well. Natural or not, I want you to be in the room with me when it happens._ :: 


	12. Chapter 11

_but I've heard rumours of true reality  
whispers of a well-lit way_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

 

Optimus was in the middle of a Senate sitting three orns later when his internal comms – locked down for the duration of the sitting – went off.

The call was coming in on a specialised high-frequency line, used only by members of the Autobot High Command. Optimus inspected the callsign, and his brows drew together, somewhere between suspicion and concern.

:: _Prowl, I am attending the Senate_ :: he said. :: _What is the_ _trouble_ _?_ ::

:: _It is not of overt tactical importance, however I judged it to be of personal interest to you and thus would like your guidance on how to deal with it_ :: said the Autobot Executive Officer, his usually crisp vocals somewhat stilted. :: _I believe that we have apprehended the group responsible for Ratchet's assault._ ::

Optimus locked down his hydraulics, not trusting his self-control to give away the sudden whirl of overwhelming anger in his spark. :: _Give me the situation report._ ::

:: _Two orns ago we launched an offensive across the head of the Praetorus Estuary – I have sent the minutia of that exercise to your desk as of the conclusion of the engagement at 50:43 joor yesterday. In short, the aim was to recover the port towns of the upper Estuary and advance inland across the Fracture Zone ahead of future excursions into the Darkmount zone of influence. We engaged four battalions of Decepticons, sustaining four hundred and three casualties, forty-eight of which were killed in action. Decepticon losses are estimated at roughly two hundred._ _The result of the engagement is that_ _we currently hold the forts of Maximus Bay and_ _Windbreak Pier, along with four thousand and seventy-two Decepticon prisoners._ ::

Prowl made a genteel cough. :: _Among those prisoners are a squad of... advance scouts, perhaps. They lack a formal rank and seem to be foreign to the area, and their captain reports directly to the Special Operations District Commander rather than the formal military High Command. Talk among the rank and file of both forts, which was relayed to our investigators with little remorse, is that they do as they like in the fulfilment of their jobs, and are not overly concerned with the comfort of mecha either under their charge or in their custody. They are not well-liked._ ::

:: _What makes you believe that they were the ones who attacked Ratchet?_ :: asked Optimus. He realised that he was frowning thunderously at the current speaker – some young Conservative, who looked rather disconcerted by the attention – and relaxed his facial stays.

:: _The squad captain is a rather striking mech_ :: said Prowl. :: _It may be necessary to ask Ratchet's help in identifying them, but Jazz and several of the Special Operations retrieval team which brought him back from Mollyn Stay have pointed him out to me as a mech who was seen fleeing the church where Ratchet was found._ ::

Optimus' inbox pinged. An encrypted file transfer blinked in the space below Prowl's user icon.

He opened it, and an image of a mech filled his HUD.

:: _That is Glissade_ :: said Prowl. :: _Decepticon, former private military contractor with a Polyhex-based firm._ ::

Glissade was tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, displaying warframe claws on an extended right hand. His armor was thick and somewhat out of proportion, perhaps a practical upgrade from his former life; it gleamed solid, colourless white. Narrowed yellow optics stared out of a long, aquiline face.

Optimus studied the photo, analysing the mech from every angle. Hatred, a very rare emotion for him, bloomed within his emotional cortex. This mech had hurt Ratchet. Had very nearly killed him.

:: _You have him in custody?_ ::

Prowl sent an affirmative ping. :: _Currently in solitary confinement. His squad are housed in a separate wing of the fort, awaiting deportation to the military prison in Uraya._ ::

Optimus closed the image file, and saved the transfer to his temporary reference folder.

:: _Forward me Jazz' report, and any interrogation notes relevant to the situation_ :: he ordered. :: _Send this mech and his squad to the high-security depot in Uraya as soon as possible. I do not believe that a retrieval attempt is likely, given his rank, but I will not risk the possibility._ ::

Prowl, whatever his thoughts were, kept them to himself. :: _Yes, sir._ ::

Optimus went to terminate the connection, then remembered something he'd left out. :: _And, Prowl? Thank you._ ::

:: _It is no proble_ _m_ :: said Prowl, and cut the line.

Optimus consciously relaxed his cables, loosening his fists and sinking back into his chair. He listened to the end of the young Conservative's speech with a whirl of thoughts in his processors.

Prowl's indecisiveness with regards to the captives was well-considered. Ordinarily, Decepticon prisoners of war were treated as separate to those who broke Autobot or Cybertronian law, housed in different facilities and with different rights. Prisoners of war faced no trials and were given no parole; their incarceration generally came to an end through either escape or periodic exchanges of hostages, if they were highly-ranked enough. A raw handful switched factions, joining the Autobots instead, or were granted passage offworld to the officially-neutral colonies.

This system was not perfect. It made no allowance for the punishment of mecha whom – like Glissade and his squad – had committed gross crimes against others.

Two seats along, Elita rose to make a rebuttal. She gathered her hardcopies in one hand, gesturing around the arena.

An icon blinked in the upper right corner of Optimus' HUD, signaling the arrival of a file into his cloud inbox. He opened the program, downloading it into his temporary storage.

He had a meeting with Kup and Nimbus immediately following the Senate, and a teleconference with Ultra Magnus after that. Jazz was on his way north from the Torus frontline; he would arrive at the Palace not long after Optimus himself came home from the Council Towers. Primus knew why he wanted to meet Optimus there, rather than where he had ready access to his classified work files – but then, Jazz had always danced to his own tune.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

Reluctantly, Optimus shelved his thoughts of war. The Senate too needed his attention.

* * *

Ratchet was sitting in a pool of late afternoon sunlight by the courtyard doors when Optimus arrived back at the palace, a little earlier than scheduled.

He reclined in a low-backed chair, frowning pensively at a news article on his datapad screen. His free hand was cupped against his abdominal plating, digits tapping lightly against the edge of his grill.

“Good afternoon,” said Optimus, divesting his subspace of the datapads and hardcopy files he'd thought to bring home from his Senate offices. Somewhere among them was a printout of Jazz' report. He searched, found it, and placed in the top of his thick Emergencies folder, leaving the less urgent items for later perusal. “How was your day, old friend?”

Ratchet didn't answer at first, only frowning more deeply at the article. Then he visibly relaxed, shuttering his optics and exventing.

“It was... thought-provoking,” he said, inspecting the word for accuracy before he spoke it. “I should have expected this, but in the stress of late it has been far from my priorities, I suppose.”

Optimus collected a decanter of chilled energon, Kalisi mid-grade, from the refrigerator. “What should you have expected?”

The datapad was waved in his general direction. “Did I ever tell you about Pharma and I?”

“A little,” said Optimus. He poured himself a glass of energon, offering a second to Ratchet. “Energon?”

“Plain-grade, thank you,” said Ratchet. He sat up a little straighter in his chair before accepting the glass.

“Most of what I know about Pharma, I recall from your complaints,” said Optimus, with a ghost of humour playing about his EM field. “We considered promoting him to temporary Commanding Medical Officer on your recommendation, however, did we not? Though Proserpina was chosen in the end.”

“Yes, and it was probably for the best – he enjoys the status of leadership perhaps a shade too much,” said Ratchet. He passed the datapad to Optimus. “But he is more well-known amongst the medical community than Proserpina. I served as his moderator during his initial residencies, and though he undoubtedly gained from the association, he quickly made it all under his own ability. His specialty is morphostructural surgery; he's made a fortune reformatting the nouveau riche. And, as you can see, he's made the top spot of Boreal Millennium's Next Autobot CMO shortlist.”

Optimus inspected the article. It turned out to be an opinion piece by the publication's head political editor, skirting very close to the implication of nepotism among Autobot appointments to high-ranked positions (CMO being the example given) without actually saying the words outright.

He and Ratchet _had_ been together for a long time preceeding Ratchet's appointment to the position of Commanding Medical Officer, Optimus mused. But Ratchet's promotion had been one of the least-debated decisions in the history of Autobot High Command; his skill, both in surgery and administration, had far outstripped that of his closest competitors, and he had been an enlisted Autobot since before the fall of the former Senate's Legitimates.

Optimus shook his head, turned off the datapad. “It seems to me that the media enjoy seeing connections where there are none.”

“They're talking out of their exhaust pipes, I know that,” said Ratchet. “But Boreal Millennium is well-respected, and there are a lot of people who would like to believe that of us. Of you, especially. I don't know that I want to give them the ammunition to try.”

Optimus looked at Ratchet – _really_ looked, at the pained tightness around his optics and the determined set of his mouth, the shiver in his EM field that spoke of a decision he did not want to make. “Your contributions as Commanding Medical Officer were great and much-needed,” he said, gently, placing a hand on Ratchet's forearm. “No-one can argue that you did not serve the Autobot cause to the best of your far from inconsiderable ability. Do you believe that Pharma, or others, could do your job better than that?”

Ratchet gave him a level look. “Proserpina, perhaps. Pharma, no. There are others, working their way into their careers, that might. It's not that that bothers me, Optimus; it's the perception by others that my sharing your life and berth had been your primary concern in promoting me.”

Optimus opened his mouth to reply; Ratchet held up a hand, forestalling it. “You're better than that. You're fair, and you make judgements and decisions based on empirical evidence of ability rather than caste or bank account or whether or not someone will open their panels for you. That's why I chose to follow you, why I decided to trust you enough to get to know you and fall in love with you. And it makes me... angry, _furious_ sometimes, that other mecha will try to bring you down to their level, misrepresent you in the hopes of swaying others to their side.”

They sat in silence for a moment, sunlight glinting off the planes of their armour as the planet slowly turned towards night.

“Thank you,” said Optimus, breaking the silence. His voice, slow and somewhat hesitant, gained sureness. “Your loyalty toward me is inspiring, do you know? I do my best to live up to it.”

Ratchet turned to him, and smiled. “In any case, I don't have to make a decision any time soon. Cogwheel recommended my parental leave be extended up to three lunar cycles.”

“So long?” asked Optimus, returning the smile. “Why is that?”

“Both to give me time to physically recover from what is looking more and more as if it is going to be a surgical birth, and to allow me time to bond with my daughter without pain.” Ratchet cupped both hands against his belly, gazing wistfully at the prominent swell. “As we speak, I have an X-negative pain chip active in my systems. I'm beginning to need them almost constantly. I worry that I'm going to cultivate a dependency, but I really can't function without them.”

Optimus frowned, and stroked Ratchet's arm. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

But Ratchet gave him a bittersweet smile. “No. Aside from distracting me, that is, which you already do amply well.”

He took up the datapad, and switched it back on. “That's what this was in, fact. Then Pharma caught my attention, and it was all downhill from there.”

Optimus shifted, uncomfortably reminded of Prowl's news. “I may have had a similar afternoon.”

Ratchet looked up from the datapad again. “What happened?”

“I had a comm from Prowl, in the middle of the Senate.” He fell silent, considering how to broach the subject, then opened his work folder and rifled through it for Prowl's report. “Yesterday we achieved a major incursion into Decepticon territory alongside the borders of Uraya and the Praetorus Estuary.”

Out of the corner of his optics, he saw Ratchet stiffen. Mollyn Stay lay within the area he had named.

“Among some four thousand Decepticon prisoners of war, there is an individual matching the description of one seen fleeing the scene of your attack.”

Ratchet shuttered his optics, his lips moving in a silent curse. He balled his fists, and thumped hard against the plating of his thigh.

Optimus gave him a moment to process the news before he continued. “The fact is that neither I nor Prowl have little idea how we can proceed to deal with him, if he is indeed one of them. What he did to you was merciless torture, and I would see him face penalty for that if it were up to me – but I was not the one he wronged. If you wish to pursue restitution, we can. However, if you have other ideas, if you think that the process would be too arduous or painful for you, we can... overlook it, and treat him as we would any prisoner of war.”

“He's a Decepticon.” Ratchet met his optics, and the look of exhaustion, defeat in them made Optimus' spark chill. This was not a side of Ratchet he saw often. “A Decepticon prisoner of war. How am we supposed to legally charge and convict him when we're already in a position of power, _and_ opposition – to him?”

Optimus had given thought to that on the way home. “Rape, under wartime conditions, is a crime against the common law by treaty with the Galactic Council of States. We have the authority to try him – if you wish to pursue the charge.”

Ratchet did not look convinced. He twisted his hands in his lap and frowned down at them, then looked sidelong up at Optimus. “I'll think about it.”

“Take the time you need,” Optimus assured him. Violations of the common law were handled in the public courts; in such a trial there would be no military secrecy to protect Ratchet. Both decisions held risks.

Perhaps it was unfair to expect Ratchet to decide, but no other person could make the decision for him. None other _should_ , thought Optimus, thinking back to their argument in the days before they had left Altihex. He had had his right to decide for himself, his own body and his future denied once already. Optimus would defy Unicron Himself to ensure that he never had to suffer that ignominy again.

There was a chime from the door. Optimus gave Ratchet a quick smile and stood, placing his empty glass on the low table between their chairs.

At the door to the official sections of the Palace, he was met with a strange sight. Three tall, burly bodyguards stood flanking a tiny silver minibot, whose vivid orange visor was of a level with their respective crotchplates.

Jazz grinned up at Optimus, and waved a three-fingered hand. “How goes it, mech?”

“Restfully, thus far,” he replied, with a wry smile that implied that Jazz' presence was expected to change that. “Welcome back to Iacon.”

He held the door open, inviting his oldest friend in. As the door slid shut, he added, “Dare I ask what happened to the finger?”

“It's a long and heroic story and involves getting it bitten off by Ravage last time I visited Darkmount,” said Jazz. He inspected the empty knuckle, and wiggled the remaining digits. “I'm supposed to be keeping it clean while the medics engineer a replacement.”

“I see,” said Optimus. “I don't recall seeing that in your report.”

Jazz grinned. “It's in there! Just in code. 'Minor injuries sustained in the process.'”

He went ahead into the lounge, and Optimus heard him greet Ratchet. “Long time no see!”

Ratchet turned, and it was as if the question Optimus had asked of him had never been spoken. He set the datapad down, field bright and open, and extended a hand in Jazz' direction. “Datanet chat isn't quite the same, is it? You've got the reservations?”

In lieu of grasping the whole hand, Jazz delicately took two of Ratchet's fingers. “Sorted 'em out when I got back to civilization last night, paid for and receipted. You just gotta supply your fine self and a Prime for us to share.”

Ratchet smiled, his optics creasing in a way that was almost mischievous. “I think I can handle that.”

Optimus watched the exchange with a bemused frown. “I cannot help but think that you two have been planning something without me.”

Jazz pressed his servo to his skinny chestplates and feigned shock. “How can you say that, Orion? —Of course we have.”

Ratchet made less of a show at being caught out. “We thought that it would be nice to have a night out. Nothing strenuous, of course,” he said, smoothing his hands over his swollen abdomen, “but something to relax and ignore certain realities for a while.”

“I booked us in for a table at Dipper's, over in the Decagon,” Jazz explained. “Thought fondue sounded about non-strenuous enough.”

Optimus looked to Ratchet for confirmation. “You are sure you won't be strained?”

Ratchet nodded. “I'll be fine as long as I have an extra pain chip or two. I'd need them here, anyway, and besides, I'm not missing out on fondue. I used to love it, perhaps a little more than was good for me.” He gave a wry smile, his EM field lifting and curling in anticipation. “I know you aren't so fond of sweet things, but the Dipper's menu has pyrites and natron as well, all sorts of things. There'll be something for you.”

Optimus was self-aware enough to recognise that he didn't really want to keep arguing. If Ratchet believed he was well enough, then it would do them both good to have a night away from the trials and concerns of the Primal lifestyle. “Very well, I won't deny that the idea is tempting. Give me a little time to make myself presentable, and explain the change of plans to Nimbus.”

Ratchet looked to Jazz, who said, “You've got plenty of time, mech; the booking isn't until 44.40 joor.”

Optimus checked his HUD chronometer out of habit: 43.76 joor, late evening shift. He excused himself, fetching a glass of plain-grade from the kitchenette chiller on his way to the washrack.

Out in the lounge, Jazz picked up the datapad Ratchet had abandoned. Optimus heard his last sentence through the crack of the shutting washrack door.

“Boreal Millennium? That's Gilded Ice Media; they disagree with the Primacy out of habit. Don't take it too seriously, Ratch.”

* * *

Dipper's was a chemical restaurant on the Decagon, Iacon's cultural and entertainment circuit. Optimus had never been there; as Orion Pax it had been well out of his pay rate, and as Optimus Prime he had simply been spoiled for choice. Primal favour was a fickle thing – as soon as he chose one restaurant, or art gallery, or noble host, that meant, according to the high society line, that he was _not choosing all the others._

It gave him a processor ache at the best of times.

They had had to take the usual coterie of bodyguards. This was, fortunately, not an unusual occurrence for the staff at Dipper's. As soon as they arrived in the restaurant forecourt – on foot, out of respect for Ratchet's condition – they were met by the maître d', who ushered them through a private entrance into the old high-caste dining area.

While most new establishments were opening under the integrated social model that Optimus had pushed through the Senate after his return from exile in Tyger Pax, the older (more prestigious) restaurants often still had separate dining areas for those belonging to higher castes. Ratchet, whose caste, _medecins_ , had been third-tier, might have been able to get into the high-caste room had he paid a large premium and waited several quartexes for a reservation. Optimus and Jazz, both former fourth-tier mecha, would have never been invited past the public dining room on the floor below.

The room was richly decorated in metalwork and relief, the windows framed with draped metalcloth which glimmered in deep red and blue hues in the soft fae-light. The ceiling was vaulted, not unlike the prayer hall of a Sanctuary, and statues sat atop decorative columns around the walls.

“Very nice,” Jazz murmured, as the maître d' led them to a pre-set table. He had switched the filter on his visor before they had left the palace; it now glowed a deep, sensual purple.

Optimus waited until Ratchet had sat down before he chose a seat himself, pushing it a little closer to Ratchet's. His mate smiled knowingly at him, reaching out to stroke the back of his servo in a gesture that warmed Optimus' spark.

Jazz had been provided an armless chair that brought him up to table height. He sat cross-legged in it, displaying flexibility that never failed to impress Optimus even after several thousand vorn of friendship, and leaned forward over the table with his chin in his hands. “You two are so very cute.”

Ratchet huffed at the impish note in his voice. “We have had plenty of practice.”

“Yeah, but now you can show it when you want to,” said Jazz. “That's got to be a relief.”

Optimus considered his words, then nodded. “In some ways, yes, it is.”

There were several fondue pots already on the table, chemical mixes slowly warming over small table lamps. Ratchet regarded them for a while with thoughtful intent, then dipped his finger into the closest, a sodium nitrate mix.

“Somewhat bitter, but the sweetness overrules it,” he commented. At Optimus' answering half-smile he gave a snarky quirk of his brows. “Give me a break, I'm pregnant.”

“Your request is duly granted,” said Optimus, trying not to smile further.

On the other side of the table, Jazz cackled. “The dipping stuff is coming out in a bit, Ratch. Be patient just a bit longer, hey?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “I don't know how I can possibly last five minutes,” he said dryly.

The clatter of trays announced the appearance of the waiters, bringing a selection of dips, fondue sticks, side dishes and energon to the table. There was less than there looked at first, though Optimus still thought that they would be hard-pressed to eat it all.

He chose a boron-laced carbon spiral, and nibbled the very end. It was sweet, in an understated way. He dithered for a moment over whether to dip it in the caramelised high-grade or Ratchet's sodium nitrate, but chose the high-grade in the end.

Jazz swallowed a mouthful of rust stick. “So,” he said, searching the ranked treats for another, “any idea what you're gonna name the bitlet?”

“We have a couple of ideas,” Ratchet said evasively. “You'll just have to wait and find out what they are.”

The minibot made a disappointed whistle and sank down against the back of his chair. “Aw. Not even a nickname?”

“Not as I know, no.” Optimus tried a yellowcake stick, decided that it was too sweet for his tastes, and passed it across the table to Jazz. “If we decide upon one, I promise that you will be the first to know.”

Ratchet flickered his EM field in silent assent, his mouth full.

Jazz gave them both a serene smile. “I'd be honored.”

The conversation turned in other directions: Ratchet's experience with pregnancy thus far, their (minimal) involvement with the Iaconian night life, concerts Jazz had been to recently. It came back to the war all too soon; Jazz recounted a few less-than-classified tales from the recent pushes into the Praetorus Estuary, and shared observations from his second-in-command in Centralia, Firestar. They slowly worked their way through the treats, until first Jazz, then Ratchet, sat back, intake tanks full.

Optimus pressed on, loath to waste anything though he knew he'd probably regret it in the morning. Ratchet watched him, an amused shiver on the edge of his field that said he know what Optimus was thinking.

Ratchet's expression was faraway, though, his optics dulled in thought. Jazz chattered as if to fill the silence, though if Optimus knew him he really did simply have a lot to say.

He nudged Ratchet through the bond, a gentle press of curiosity. :: _Are you tired?_ ::

Ratchet's optics brightened, focused on Optimus' face. :: _No. I'm just... thinking about things._ ::

:: _I see_ :: said Optimus. :: _Shall I leave you to your thoughts?_ ::

Ratchet straightened, sighing through his vents. :: _No, don't worry. There are a few things I can't seem to get off my mind._ ::

Optimus nodded – how he knew that feeling! :: _It is somewhat late. We can go home soon._ ::

Ratchet brushed the assurance off. :: _Not yet._ ::

He pressed his hands against the table and leaned forward, cutting Jazz off in mid-story. “Jazz, can I ask you something?”

Caught wrong-footed, Jazz simply nodded. “Sure.”

Ratchet's expression hardened. “The Decepticon Prowl has in high-security lock-up at the moment – is it Glissade?”

Optimus swallowed his current mouthful in consternation. He had not told Ratchet the name of the mech in custody, only that he was being held by Autobot forces.

Jazz held Ratchet's gaze for a long moment, his smile fading. “Yeah,” he said, “that's him.”

His ident code pinged in Optimus' short-range comms. :: _Did you tell him that name?_ ::

Optimus sent back an emphatic negative.

Ratchet's EM field went faraway and shuddered. Optimus touched his hand to remind him of reality, and after a moment Ratchet shook his helm and spoke again.

“He told me, when it happened, to say his name.” His voice was rough and deep with hatred. “I don't think I'm ever going to forget that.”

Jazz' expression was set and blank. “Ain't a spark who'd expect you to,” he said. “No-one that knows, anyway.”

Ratchet dipped his helm. “Knowing what you do, would you say that I should press charges as a private citizen, or not?”

Jazz tipped his helm to the side, his EM field murky with doubt. “I can tell you what I'd do in the same situation, but I don't know that it's what _you_ should do. We all got different ways of dealing with things.”

“I know,” said Ratchet. “But I know what Optimus would do, and I _think_ I know what I want to do; I just want another perspective.”

Jazz rested his chin on his hands and gazed levelly at him. “All right. If it were me, I'd do my best to forget about him and go on with my life. We're at war, and he's been on the front lines; chances are that he either spends the next part of his life imprisoned, or gets back out into the wide world and ends up dying in a messy and protracted fashion like everyone else in this fight. It's done, and I don't have to lift a finger to make it happen.”

He gave Ratchet a humorless smile. “Judging by your expression, that isn't what you wanted to hear.”

Ratchet shook his helm again. “No, it's just... another thing I have to consider.”

“Alongside the privacy issues and potential accusations of a kangaroo court?” guessed Jazz. “Between you two and me, the first is more of a roadblock than the second. The 'Cons don't seem too bothered to lose the Estuary. Or the mecha in it.”

“It would still be a political advantage to Megatron,” Optimus argued, “and one I cannot see him passing up.”

“The fact that it would be a private prosecution wouldn't stop him?” said Ratchet. He frowned as he hadn't before, the platelets around his optics creasing in a display of worry Optimus recognised too well.

“I doubt it,” he said. “But it will stop those who might agree with him. You and Glissade might be beholden to different factions, but legally you are both still subject to the laws of the Galactic Council – which prohibits rape under every circumstance.”

The worry creases faded, but did not quite disappear.

“I will think about it,” said Ratchet, for the second time that day.

 


	13. Chapter 12

_we could speak 'till nothing's left unspoken  
we could drink 'till we've emptied the ocean_

_we could drive 'till we run out of road_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

 

The next chord passed in a whirl of preparation and travel. Optimus went to Uraya for two orns to conference with Prowl while they waited for Ratchet's decision. He visited the high-security detention center on the outskirts of the city, but did not go any closer to Glissade. He was afraid that, if he came too close to the mech, he might lose control over the potent well of rage that had been burning inside him for so long.

Fortunately, Prowl kept him far too busy to dwell on it. Within minutes of Optimus' arrival he had passed on reports to read, plans of future campaigns to study, high-level requisitions to approve or veto. Work occupied his every waking hour.

By the time he boarded the shuttle which would take him home again, he was so exhausted that he fell into recharge where he sat. Even the noise of landing failed to rouse him.

He woke the next afternoon in the big berth in the Primal suite, covered in thermoblankets. He was alone; and, looking at the time blinking on his chronometer, it was no wonder. Ratchet would have been to teach his class that morning.

Optimus reached out through the Palace network, and found his mate in the next room, flicking through the channels on the vidscreen.

He pushed himself upright. Gravity bore down on him with a vengeance. His gyros spun and his vision swam, his sensory protocols struggled to interpret the conflicting data.

The moment took a long time to fade. He stayed sitting on the edge of the berth for a few moments more, wondering if he could trust himself not to fall over as soon as he stood. When he rose, he kept his servo against the bedhead to steady himself. His sensory input went haywire again, but not with so much vigor, and the moment passed quickly enough that he decided not to trouble his medics with it. It was probably a side effect of overwork, at any rate.

He checked his timetable as he went out into the living room, and was only somewhat surprised to see that his schedule for the day had been wiped. There was a day-old ping waiting in his inbox.

_I took the liberty of rescheduling your appointments for today. You were almost burning out in the Arrivals lounge. Get some rest, and have a bit of fun with Ratchet. I don't want to see you back at the Senate until Thirteenth Orn._

_Love, Elita One._

She had signed the message with a smiley, a habit she had picked up from Hot Rod.

Smiling, Optimus headed for the kitchenette. He sent Ratchet a good morning ping, although it wasn't exactly morning anymore, and served himself a large glass of midgrade.

Ratchet turned away from the vidscreen and directed an affectionate smile at him. “Good afternoon, Optimus. Do you feel any better?”

“I would imagine that I do,” Optimus replied, “but I cannot seem to remember anything past boarding the shuttle at Uraya, and the lack of a comparison makes it hard to know for sure.”

He bent down, pressing his forehead against Ratchet's for a moment before he turned the gesture into a long, passionate kiss.

Ratchet cupped his cheek vents as he drew back, pressing warmth and love through his EM field. “I missed you, Optimus.”

“Did I miss much?” Optimus asked. He straightened before his back could complain about the unnatural stance, and went to the table, where the datapads he'd taken to Uraya had been stacked.

“Not as such,” said Ratchet. He glanced down at his belly, and his servo drifted up to cover the swell. Sunlight drifted through the loose, relaxed wavelengths of his EM field. “Well. You wouldn't have been able to feel it in any case, but she's started to move.”

“Oh.” Optimus looked at Ratchet, taking in the stressed dullness of his plating and the expression of utter relief that shivered in his EM field. He had been looking forward to this moment for thousands of vorn, Optimus realised. His previous pregnancies had never made it this far. “That is very welcome news.”

Ratchet flashed him a quick smile – he'd caught the heartfelt emotion beneath the restrained words.

“I'm due to go back to the hospital for another checkup next chord,” he said. “From then, twice a chord until she reaches viability. Only five more chords to go.”

“We will have to see about preparing a place for her, in that case.” Optimus considered the Palace. The Primal suite was richly outfitted and well-guarded, but it had not been intended for mecha with young sparklings, the assumption being that any kindled with a Consort or private lover would be raised with the partner's clade. The Primacy had never been hereditary.

Perhaps they should go elsewhere for the time being. The Primacy owned residences in almost all the remaining major Northern cities: Praxus, Tyrest, Ibex, Kalis. Tyger Pax and Meridia, too, though these were perhaps a little close to the Centralian zone of combat. Ibex was supposed to be pleasant at this time of the vorn. Maybe they could bring Cogwheel with them.

He voiced this thought to Ratchet as he went into the kitchenette. Ratchet chuckled.

“Maybe. I've never been to Ibex. It could be interesting.”

“Neither have I,” said Optimus. “I hear that it is quiet, however, once the summer racing season is over. I believe I could appreciate that.” He took a flask of plain-grade from the refrigerator and dropped a couple of soda crystals into the drink. The energon fizzed prodigiously. He took a judicious sip. The gases prickled at his photoreceptors, and he made a face.

There was an incoherent noise from Ratchet's side of the room. He looked up.

Ratchet stared at the vidscreen, a stricken expression on his face and in his EM field. The vidscreen itself showed an ordinary news report, headines scrolling across the bottom of the screen while a bland-faced presenter spoke in clipped Iaconian Vulgate to the camera.

“—while the role of the Primacy in covering up the assault can only be guessed at, the dates involved suggest that the recent reveal of the Consort's pregnancy may be due to a little more than coincidence. The leaked documents reveal the full traumatic truth behind events—“

Ratchet made another noise, a strangled whimper, and hurled himself out of his chair as if he'd been stung. He stumbled across the room to the guest berthroom they used as a study. Optimus made to follow, but Ratchet shut the door in his face.

Optimus turned back to the vidscreen. Emotions not his swamped his spark; his servos shook and clenched, his plating flattening instinctually to his frame. He read the headline printed across the top of the screen: _Leaked documents reveal rape of Prime's Consort by Decepticon troops._

The emotions flowing through his bond with Ratchet doubled, tripled. A double hammerstrike of overwhelming fear and shame forced him to his knees. Distantly he heard a scream, a wailing keen of anguish through the walls.

Of all the cruelties! Everything he'd suffered through, taken and downgraded into mere tabloid news.

Optimus groped for the chair, using it to prop himself up as the energy of Ratchet's sick fear ebbed. He turned to look at the vidscreen. The news anchor had gone onto some other story now. On the rear wall of the set was a channel network icon. Not one he was familiar with.

He sent Ratchet a querying databurst. No answer returned.

In the past, whenever Ratchet had sought out privacy, Optimus had been careful not to disturb him, but made sure that he was never out of reach. Solitude was not Ratchet's natural state. When he shut himself away from the world, it was not only for a strong reason but an indication that something was deeply wrong.

Well, something was indeed deeply wrong in this situation. Unfortunately, it wasn't anything Optimus could do something about.

In his doubt, he turned to the one mech upon whom he had relied more than any other since the day he had Ascended.

Elita One answered his comm with a tight, angry tone to her voice. :: _I take it you saw the broadcast?_ ::

Optimus sent a wordless confirmation. :: _So did Ratchet._ ::

Elita swore. :: _This is a major leak. I'm turning my offices upside down trying to figure out where it might have come from. Prowl is the only other one with a copy of that report. How is he?_ ::

It took Optimus a moment to comprehend that she meant Ratchet.

:: _He is..._ _not well_. _He has sequestered himself in the study for the time being._ :: He considered the situation, then gave a stark admission. :: _I don't know what to do._ ::

:: _All you can do is wait, and give him your support where he needs it_ :: said Elita, with aching compassion. :: _Sometimes I miss the old days. Downcasting every journalist on that Primus-forsaken channel is a tempting thought right now._ ::

A sudden thought crossed Optimus' mind. :: _Which channel?_ ::

:: _Northwatch News_ :: said Elita. :: _In fact, perhaps I might not stop at the journalists. Guess who owns the channel_?::

Optimus looked it up, and a frisson of recognition went through him. :: _Gilded Ice Media._ ::

:: _Critical of the Primacy is one thing_ :: said Elita, :: _but this is another entirely. Optimus, do you know who owns majority shares in Gilded Ice?_ ::

:: _No. Is it important?_ ::

Elita's next databurst was non-verbal, tagged with glyphs of frustration and determination in spite of that. :: _A consortium of the Crowned Ice and Goldmountain Towers, and the Europa Confederation, which is in turn jointly owned by Crowned Ice and Long Midnight Towers._ ::

The list was short, but illuminating. It included Optimus' two most vocal opponents within the High Chamber of the Senate – Goldmountain, a vast clade with its members involved in every profitable profession from banking to heavy industry, and Gilded Ice, which claimed descent from the great conqueror-Prime, Nova, and had jealously guarded a near-hereditary occupation of the Ministry of Global Finance – and the clan from which had come two of the five most recent incumbents of the Primal throne: Sentinel, and Zeta. All three were indelibly linked with the power struggles between Prime and alpha clades, both past, and present.

Suddenly Optimus was not just exhausted and worried – he was _furious_.

:: _Do as you will_ :: he told Elita. :: _Deal with this matter in however manner you see fit. If you come across any_ _information which may shed light upon how it happened, contact me. I am going back to Uraya. As of now I rather prefer the Decepticons' company._ ::

Elita did not argue. :: _Will you take Ratchet with you?_ ::

And cold reality pushed back the fury. He wanted to say yes, but knew that the decision was only Ratchet's to make.

:: _I don't know_ :: he said.:: _I hope so._ ::

Perhaps recognising the despair in his answer, Elita accepted it without comment. She signed off, and the connection terminated.

Optimus sat back against the chair, rested his helm against the cushion, and stared up at the ceiling, as if he might find the answers he was looking for written up there.

* * *

It was several joor before Optimus next heard noise from inside the study. A faint click, and a thump that jarred through the floor.

The door unlocked.

Optimus took it as a sign that Ratchet was ready to see him. He pushed himself to his feet, crossed to the door, and opened it an unobtrusive crack.

Ratchet was on the floor, sitting upright, knees drawn up to his chest as far as they would go. Datapads scattered on the floor around him as if they had been thrown, screens cracked and flickering. Ratchet lifted his optics to Optimus, peering in through the door, and gave a wan smile.

An invitation, if an unenthusiastic one. Optimus slid into the study, closing the door behind him.

“How are you?” he asked. “When it went quiet, I worried.”

“I thought you might have,” said Ratchet. Guilt lurked around the edges of his ragged EM field. “I'm sorry. I don't want to make you worry.”

“It's all right,” said Optimus. “I understand.”

“No, you don't,” said Ratchet, tired but emphatic. “I hope you never do.”

Optimus flared his EM field against his mate's in a silent apology and moved closer. Ratchet leant toward him, gravitating, two binary stars. Optimus took him into his arms and held him, stroking the heavy plates of his back, slowing the anxious spin of his spark to match Ratchet's.

“I can't believe they just... did that,” said Ratchet into his chest, his voice crackling with anguished static. “Now everyone knows what they did to me.”

One day, he had said a while ago, he might be comfortable with telling the world what he had lived through. Now that choice had been taken from him.

Optimus held Ratchet a little tighter as heavy tremors began to wrack his frame. His ventilator fans shrilled, dumping panicked heat. He scrubbed at his face, and a short keen escaped him. “I'm sorry! I thought I'd—thought I was over it!”

“It's all right,” said Optimus, voice pitched low and deliberately calm. “If you cannot hold it back, do not force yourself. I will be here for you.”

Ratchet curled into his chest, hiding his face in Optimus' windshield. He hunched his shoulders to hide the heaving sobs that shook him, but in vain.

Optimus held him in silence.

It took a long time for Ratchet to calm down. Though the sobs soon dried up and the shaking calmed, he stayed where he was for much longer, clutching at Optimus' shoulders, armour clamped tight to his frame in distress. Optimus soothed his EM field around Ratchet's frame, trying to help him relax.

In the end, Ratchet spoke. “I've made a decision about the, the Decepticons.”

“What have you decided?” asked Optimus. The sudden change of subject did not feel natural, but he did not question it.

“I'm going to press charges in a civilian court,” said Ratchet. “I'm not like Jazz, I can't just let it go. It kills me every day I do nothing about it, and now I don't have to take the risk of losing my anonymity to civilian information laws because I don't have it anymore!”

He seemed to realise that he was shouting, and lowered his voice, looking away from Optimus in shame. “You're sure that the Tyrest Accord covers situations like this?”

Optimus nodded. “Yes. For what it's worth, it may be a good idea to speak to Ultra Magnus first, but from my knowledge, it is possible.”

Ratchet chuffed. “I'll keep that in mind.”

* * *

The shuttle to Uraya departed early in the dawn shift. Flanked by the full complement of Primal bodyguards, Optimus and Ratchet boarded from the military terminal at Springs Junction Station, under the cover of darkness.

Takeoff made Ratchet cramp horribly. High altitude gave him constant nausea. He tried to sleep for most of the journey, pushing the back of his seat down and reclining with pillows filched from the other seats underneath his back and neck. Optimus kept an anxious optic on him throughout the flight.

It was midday in Uraya when they landed. The sun shone with the subtle warmth of a mid-latitude autumn, blocked out from time to time by the low-level clouds that scudded across the blue sky, driven by a chilly anabatic wind.

Ratchet stumped out of the shuttle, in too much pain to bother with social niceties. He grumbled at the squad of Autobots Prowl had sent to escort them, and then at Optimus when he interceded on the escorts' behalf. He fell silent for a time as they left the Arrivals terminal, then started up again once they were in the rail capsule.

Like Iacon, Uraya had a high-speed rail system connecting the furthest-flung parts of the city. It covered around the same land area as the Imperial capital, but at a significantly lower population and construction density. One of the escorts apologised for the traffic jam around the local rail station. Optimus' first response was, “What traffic jam?”

(Fortunately he managed to stop himself from saying it out loud.)

Prowl met them outside the former hotel that now housed the regional Autobot Command. His expression was typically dour, his doorwings stiff and poised.

“I have ascertained that the leak did not come from within my office,” he said, as he led them into the old foyer. Crystal carvings and decorations had been stripped out, replaced with temporary offices and public datapoints, most of which were in use. Speech in a dozen different languages filled the air. “Our security measures are unbreached.”

“You're absolutely sure?” asked Ratchet.

Prowl paused beside a desk, taking a datapad from the mech behind it. He turned to give Ratchet his full attention, and nodded.

“I had Red Alert double-check. He triple- and quadruple-checked of his own accord. As robust as the cybersecurity systems in this building are, there are ways in – but we monitor these even more strictly than the rest.”

Ratchet held his gaze for a long moment, as if he could read the truth of Prowl's words on his face. Then he relented with a sigh.

“I see.”

Prowl regarded him with a look that was unusually compassionate. “Optimus has told me that you intend to press charges against the Decepticons in a civilian court.”

“I do,” said Ratchet. He drew his plating tight and glared, daring the tactician to object.

Prowl simply nodded. “I see. In that case I suggest holding the case here in the Torus States, rather than having the perpetrators extradited to Iacon. There will be a lot of media attention from both territories. The less that is unusual – the less involvement by military figures – the better.”

Optimus absorbed the recommendation in silence. He had no desire to go back to Iacon before it was absolutely necessary, and Prowl's words confirmed the suspicion in his own thoughts that Ratchet had chosen a difficult road, one where his status might be hindrance rather than help.

“I spoke to the Office of the Tyrest Accord last night,” said Ratchet. “According to them, I have legal grounds for a case, but only with the agreement of the local courts.”

“File a charging document with the Urayan Magisterium,” Prowl told him. “Today, if possible; tomorrow is the last orn before a somewhat lengthy local holiday.”

Ratchet's EM field gave a flicker of trepidation, but he ruthlessly quashed it. “I know, I've been here before.”

They took the old hotel elevator up to the executive floor, where Prowl had his office. There, he engaged Optimus in a discussion of tactics, going over the advances and losses in the northern Torus States while Ratchet downloaded a charging document from the Magisterium's public works website and painstakingly filled it in.

Prowl had had news from Ultra Magnus while the shuttle had been in the air. Two orn ago a scouting party investigating the extent of the Decepticons' incursion into the hinterlands between Metrotitan and Central City had run into a squad of Decepticons. In the skirmish that followed, the Autobots had quickly realised that they were up against a mixed squad of ordinary Decepticons, and the extremely resilient, purple-plated synthetic sparks which had wreaked so much havoc during the fall of Metrotitan. After the death of the squad captain, the survivors had regrouped under the leadership of a non-commissioned officer and utilised unorthodox tactics to bring down the rest of the Decepticons. The officer in question had brought one of the offlined frames to the scouts' depot a hundred leagues from Central City, showing foresight that nevertheless left a bad taste in Optimus' chemoreceptors.

Analysis of the frame confirmed one half of their deep-cover intelligence. The Decepticon had been no ordinary mech.

“According to the scouts' reports, there were approximately twelve of these synthetic mecha,” explained Prowl. “It was rather kind of the Decepticons to paint them all one colour. They were working with a squad of enlisted soldiers at a ratio of approximately one to two, suggesting that their excursion was in fact a training exercise. They carried three weapons each: a neutrino pulse rifle, a close-range pistol, and a wrist blade about point-seven mechanometers in length. The late squad captain attempted to engage them from a defensive distance, and was picked off by neutrino fire. Under Sideswipe's command, the remainder charged, engaging the Decepticons in close-range combat.”

Optimus sat back, his optics widened in surprise. “They charged into neutrino fire?”

“They did indeed,” said Prowl. “When asked to explain his decision, Sideswipe reported that the armour of the synthetic mecha seemed to disperse the energy of their own long-range weapons, plasma-state automatic rifles, with a great deal of efficiency. The squad, being scouts, did not have heavy solid-state weaponry with them; knowing this, he then decided that their best option was to approach the enemy as closely as possible, and thence engage them with bladed weapons.” He tapped his ever-present stylus against the desk . “There were casualties, of course, but fewer than I might have predicted from such an engagement.”

Optimus knew Prowl well enough to recognise when he was toying with an idea. The focus in his optics was distant, the expression on his face relaxed.

“The exact mineral composition of the new Decepticons' armour is still being analysed, but it appears to differ little from thunderbolt iron. It is significantly lighter than our scientists were expecting, and according to early lab tests had stood up extremely well to repeated fire of both energy weapons and solid-state shells of almost all calibers used in conventional handheld and inbuilt weapons. Unlike the current dispersal armour technology available to us, it is no less effective at withstanding attack by bladed weapons, and carries the same weaknesses, namely the requirement for mobility joints and transformation seams, and the complexity of transformation-compatible mountings.”

“We might borrow it for our heavy-armour divisions,” observed Optimus.

“I am thinking a little more than that,” said Prowl. “If my suspicions are right, such soldiers will become a precious commodity in this war. We have access to the Well of All Sparks; we control seventy-eight percent of the richest mineral provinces of the Tagan Heights. We could well spark our own.”

“No,” said Optimus. “Absolutely not.”

Prowl looked up from the datapad, opening his mouth; Optimus lifted a hand to forestall him.

“According to this document you have here—” he pushed the hardcopy across the table to Prowl— “the Decepticon whose frame is providing this useful data was less than sixteen quartexes old when he died. I will not see newsparks pushed into this war by my own hand, or any of yours. I forbid it.”

Prowl dipped his wings in acknowledgement, but, unusually, refused to back down. “We cannot keep relying on civilian volunteers to fill our ranks, Optimus. Currently, the non-enlisted population is sufficient, but in ten, twenty, thirty vorn, will it still be so? The recent frontline engagements in the Centralian fronts have incurred some of the highest casualty counts of this entire war. We lost Metrotitan, almost solely thanks to a force of nearly half a million mecha barely older than newsparks. Your objections are ethically admirable, but practically unsustainable.”

“Even so,” said Optimus, shuttering his optics, “I will not countenance it. It is not right.”

Something deep inside him rebelled at the thought of sending such young mecha off to war. At sixteen quartexes old, he had only just joined the Hall of Records' general staff. Mecha still playfully rapped their knuckles on his upper arm, in lieu of being able to reach his helm, and called him 'sparkles'.

He firmed his resolve. There was a difference between ensparking a soldier to fill one specific position, as happened from time to time in the more specialised divisions of the Autobot forces, and mass-sparking an army of what would end up essentially as cannon fodder.

It would not happen on his watch.

Prowl watched him with a resigned stare. “Very well. Then I will consult with the research and development laboratories in Kimia and Crystal City, and we willl find you some other way of making use of this information.”

Optimus settled back into his chair. Prowl's expression was once more impossible to read. No doubt he thought Optimus a soft-cored leader, embattled with too many morals. Prowl had once been an Enforcer; he was much more used to balancing law and ethic with practicality than was Optimus. But there were some things that Optimus just couldn't give up on.

He changed the subject, asking after the state of Prowl's forces in the northeast corner of the Praetorus Estuary, and did his best to forget about the entire exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sideswipe's little stunt was somewhat inspired by the bayonet charges carried out by the [28 Maori Battalion](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C4%81ori_Battalion) in World War II.


	14. Chapter 13

_and your voice was all i heard—_

_did i get what i deserved?_

…

LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA

The Urayan Courts admitted Ratchet's charging document under the domestic mandate of the Tyrest Accord. A short preliminary hearing was held, and all charged upheld. Scarcely a quartex later he was assigned a prosecutor and a trial judge qualified to preside over breaches of the Accord, which though in this case working in an intranational capacity, was nevertheless a branch of law administered partially by an external power – the Council of Galactic States – and therefore demanded a different set of certifications from its judges than did Cybertronian domestic law.

As plaintiff, Ratchet was not required to appear in the court until he was to give evidence. Glissade and the co-accused Decepticons were likewise kept under the authority of the Autobot prisoner-of-war facilities, and thus did not appear until the second convening, when the charges were read out.

The morning was dull and rainy, a steady patter of droplets against the window playing a thrumming beat. On any other day Optimus would have been driving to the command centre by this time, but today he was lying on the hotel's low berth with Ratchet groaning and whimpering in his arms, both of them waiting for the double-X grade painkiller chips to kick in. He had one arm around Ratchet's lower back, tucking him in against his side; Ratchet was holding the other, his grip vicelike.

He had only spoken that morning to beg for the painkillers. His optics were blazing, near-white with stress, and no wonder; when Optimus put his servo on his belly it had felt as though his internal components were tying themselves into knots. He'd held deliberately still since the chips went in, loath to provoke the cramps any further.

Ratchet sighed. His grip on Optimus' servo loosened.

“Is it working?” murmured Optimus.

They had both been frightened, at first, that such fierce cramping was a harbinger of miscarriage. There was a medic on the way, coming to them through the peak of the morning rush-hour traffic. But though the pain had been terrible, it hadn't felt to Ratchet like another miscarriage.

Ratchet replied via internal comms rather than waste the effort speaking aloud. :: _A little. I'm going to purge if I move, though._ ::

:: _I believe I saw some stabilizer chips in the main suite_ :: said Optimus. :: _Shall I retrieve them for you?_ ::

Ratchet's field pressed a low-frequency negative against his own. :: _No. If you move, so I'll have to as well. Get the medic to do it, whenever they get here._ ::

Right on cue, Ironhide – on guard in the hallways outside – pinged Optimus to let him know the medic had arrived. “You won't have to wait long,” he said, and gave Ratchet's lower back a soothing stroke.

To Ironhide he sent a message asking him to escort the medic inside. Presently, he heard the mutter of voices in the main suite, and then the beep of the bedroom's secure lock. The door slid aside and the medic slipped in, Ironhide a big black shadow in her wake.

Optimus relayed to them both Ratchet's concerns of purging, partially as a symptom report and also explaining in a roundabout way why he hadn't gotten up. The medic, a slim light standard with capable offroad tires (a contradiction of the sort that had sprung up often in the vorn after the repealing of the Caste Function Act), approached the berth.

“I can't say I'm surprised,” she said, bending to speak to Ratchet directly. “My designation is Carinae; I am a senior obstetrician at Uraya Public Hospital. Would you mind if I ran an external system diagnostic?”

Ratchet's vocaliser clicked in pain. “I would not.”

Optimus moved his arm out of the way, and Ratchet popped his ventral panel. Carinae took a thick datapad from her subspace, plugged it into Ratchet's initial port. Ratchet made a face as the connection programs went to work.

:: _Is that a good sign or bad?_ :: asked Optimus, over internal comms.

Ratchet's servo tightened around his. :: _The systems diagnosis? I would say that she is being cautious. She'll have read my file; she will know that my_ _condi_ _tion is_ _not good_ _._ ::

The datapad beeped. Carinae disengaged the jack from Ratchet's port with a thoughtful frown.

“There is a significant pressure reading throughout your lower abdominal cavity,” she said. “A certain amount of this is normal during pregnancy – as the sparkling grows, it takes up increasing amounts of space, and besides that a carrier's protomass count will expand significantly as a byproduct of the generation process. There is far more elasticity in subdural mass and plating anchorage around our abdomens than anywhere else on our bodies for this exact reason – when we carry, the natural space within our abdominal cavity is quite often not enough to bring a sparkling to term. Thus, we expand outward.” She swept her arm out in front of her, mimicking a gravid belly. “However, in a few cases, the sparkling's size, or the body's configuration, is such that this is not enough. Ratchet's internal configuration is complicated by the presence of the redundant gestation chamber, and of the system upgrades he would have received as a general practice medic."

She gave the datapad another frown. “Additionally, there is an unusual fluid buildup between anchor masses. This would no doubt be a further contributory factor.”

“What can be done about it?” Optimus frowned down at Ratchet, brushing his fingertips over the swollen abdomen. Ratchet returned the look with dim, tired optics.

“There are surgical procedures proven to be effective in reducing the compression. These can be daunting, as they involve a minor rearrangement of the abdominal cavity, but they do have a ninety-eight percent success rate, which is rather better than anything else we can offer. If, however, surgery is not an option, then we may drain the excess fluid and perform regular mass excisions.”

“How regular?” croaked Ratchet.

“Once a chord, give or take.” Carinae smiled. “The same programming which tells your gestation systems to build your sparkling, suggests to your protomass that it might like to build itself up as well. Medical historians theorise that this mechanism helped early carriers to guard against scarcity of resources in times gone by. These days, of course, it serves little purpose.”

Optimus recalled the ranks of starving carriers in the undercities of the South. Carinae had the look about her of a high-caste mech, and her neat, clipped diction was typical of an Iaconian university education. There would not be many from such a background who were fully aware of the struggles mecha faced elsewhere.

He looped his arm around Ratchet's waist once more. :: _What do you think?_ :: he asked.

Ratchet replied after a brooding moment. :: _Surgical realignment is likely not my best option. Cogwheel and I were considering it, but we believe that the extent of my deformation is too much for it to be anything but temporarily successful. The fluid buildup, on the other hand, is easily fixed, and mass excisions are common enough._ ::

Surgery would also interfere with the trial, Optimus mused.

“In the meantime,” Carinae continued, “painkiller chips and bed rest will be the most effective treatment. If you'd like to proceed with the excision, I can arrange for an outpatient visit at a time which would suit you. I'll send you my private number in a moment.”

“Thank you,” said Ratchet, still unmoving. “As soon as possible would be much appreciated.”

He fell into silence as the medic packed up her things and left.

Optimus lay beside him, listening to the stressed hum of his systems. He brushed his fingertips over the back of Ratchet's hand, following the wide seams of flexible plating up to Ratchet's wrist.

“That tickles,” Ratchet murmured. Optimus glanced down at him: though Ratchet's expression was tired, there was an upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Hm,” he said, lacing his digits between Ratchet's and turning their hands over so that he could get at his mate's sensitive palms. “Does it, now.”

A rush of air through Ratchet's ventral fans, the faintest of laughs. “You're a skidplate, you know that?”

Optimus hummed, and leant up over Ratchet, kissing his chevron, the corners of his optics. “I learned from the best,” he demurred, “and I rather enjoy putting their lessons into practice.”

“Yes, of course.” Ratchet held his hands as Optimus kissed his mouth, gently and chastely but no less heartfelt for it. “I wouldn't expect any less.”

Optimus chuckled, and pressed their forehelms together, crest to chevron. “That's a very dry tone of voice. One almost suspects sarcasm.”

“Only suspects? Plainly you haven't been living with me long enough.” There was a real smile on Ratchet's face now. He had always enjoyed banter, for as long as Optimus had known him. He had a sharp mind, and a sharper glossa, and he enjoyed getting to stretch his mental faculties in exercising the two.

They kissed again, slow and sweet. Then Optimus settled down beside Ratchet, and soon, he heard the noise of his mate's systems settle into recharge.

* * *

 

The Court of the Tyrest Accord was packed. It was the third day of direct examination; previously, the Court had heard the evidence given by members of the retrieval team which had recovered Ratchet from the church in Mollyn Stay, and from the medical team which had worked to save his and Twelvegauge's lives afterward. Today, Ratchet would give his own account.

The news had gotten out, quicker than they had imagined. The trial was a public one; the stipulation of the Office of the Accord. Although the witnesses had been granted name suppression in order to preserve their anonymity (and, perhaps, safety against reprisals by Decepticon agents), Ratchet had not bothered to apply for it himself. What was the point, he reasoned, when the Iaconian media had already taken from him his ability to keep what had happened on his own terms? Given the nature of the trial, mecha would guess at his involvement anyway.

Media thronged the public galleries. Representatives from most of Cybertron's major networks were present, as were many from smaller local channels. There were not many who did not wear a reporter's badge, but they were present – an observer for the Office of the Accord, a couple of mecha from the local chapter of the Returned Services Association, observing for the sake of Twelvegauge's family in Kalis, and others. The blank stare of cameras focused unerringly in on the vidscreen which had replaced the witnesses' box for the next stage of proceedings.

The Court Justices had arranged for Ratchet a live video link, from which he could give testimony without having to leave his berth. Although the mass excision and draining of fluid from his abdominal cavity had been a success, easing the tension on his components and thus the resultant pain, the post-operation systems scan had found reduced function in several internal systems, including his fuel converter. He tired easily, and suffered blackouts when forced to exert himself. Being confined to the hotel berth was an imposition that made him irritable and frustrated, but the alternative was risking his health and safety.

The video link came with its own video tech, and an Accord-sanctioned Court Justice to help him swear the oaths of truthfulness to Prima and Logos. He watched the court fill up through the vidscreen, while the Justice sat on the berth beside him and explained the minutia of the trial procedure.

Optimus sat in a high-backed chair at the side of the room, out of the camera's field of vision. The suite windows were at his back. If Ironhide were around, he would scold him for choosing such an exposed position, but the sun was breaking through the dispersing clouds outside, and Optimus had always enjoyed the sensation of sunlight on his armour.

He held his end of the bond within the core of his spark, cradling the spectre of Ratchet's being within his own. Ratchet leaned into him, heavy and frightened. Optimus poured calmness and serenity into the bond, finding the thread of resolution within Ratchet and encouraging it to grow. On the bed, Ratchet's posture straightened and his plating loosened from his frame. The flutterings of panic faded. He was still very apprehensive, but now he had the clarity of mind to face the trial's questions with the same dogged determination that he had always approached a challenge with.

The video tech indicated that she was about to bring the two-way link online. Ratchet glanced at Optimus, a flash of longing winding through their bond.

Then the trial began. The Court bailiff called the audience to order. The chief Justice rose, and greeted Ratchet with a solemn nod.

“Plaintiff, please give your designation and clade of origin.”

“Ratchet, of the second-rank _medecins_ , Iacon Central.”

There was a faint shift of movement in the public gallery. Ordinarily, when a Prime took a mech as bondmate or Consort, that mech left their clade of origin to signify their devotion to the Prime, who traditionally had no clade of their own. For Ratchet to remain part of his former clade was a powerful statement of independence, that he intended to stand on equal footing with Optimus throughout their relationship.

The Justice took his answer in stride. “Then, Ratchet, do you swear by Logos of the Dawn that your evidence to the court and the jury of this trial shall be the truth, as the Oathkeeper is your witness, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

“As the Oathkeeper is my witness, I do,” replied Ratchet.

The questioning began on a low-key note. The prosecutor's assistant, a lanky light standard with the sleek silver and white paint of the Torus Bar Association, asked him where he was when the attack had taken place, who he had been with. Ratchet began to explain the basics of the Darkmount retrieval mission.

There had been four SpecOps agents on the team; Cutlass, the captain, a thirty-three mission veteran, and three others of high qualifications. Only three had entered Darkmount – Ratchet and the fourth had remained outside the city limits, mingling with the remaining civilian population that occupied the former industrial districts on the edge of the former Polyhexi hive city.

The three who had entered the city returned within ten joor, a badly-injured deep-cover agent on their heels. Ratchet had wanted to perform emergency repairs there and then, but Cutlass had insisted that they get clear of the fortress first. Ten leagues out from the old shield wall, Ratchet had patched line damage, disconnected Twelvegauge's mutilated audials and filled in the hole in his helm left by Decepticon interrogators, splinted his left femoral strut and, most importantly, made sure that the Decepticons had not managed to break through his firewalls. Twelvegauge had smiled unsteadily, one optic brighter than the other, and thanked him for his care.

It was on the way back that disaster had struck. They had been coming down the southern tip of the Manganese Mountains into Urayan territory, when they had unexpectedly run into a loose cohort of Decepticon advance scouts on the edge of the Praetorus Fracture Zone. Cutlass had sent Ratchet and Twelvegauge offroad into the badlands to take shelter, but he had underestimated the number of mecha in the cohort, and Ratchet had quickly been taken prisoner.

Here Ratchet's voice wobbled audibly.

Optimus sent him a pulse of love and warmth through their bond. Ratchet replied with a wan sense of gratefulness.

The prosecutor's assistant gave him a moment to compose himself before she continued. “Can you describe these mecha who attacked you?”

Ratchet shook his helm. “Most of them, no. I don't even know how many there were.”

“The defendant, then, was he one of them?”

Ratchet nodded. “Yes.”

The lawyer gave him a sympathetic smile. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I remember him,” Ratchet said simply. “The white plating, the jagged shoulders, his optics. He made me say his name when he—”

He broke off, looking down at his hands. “He's distinctive, that's all.”

The prosecutor's assistant nodded, and moved onto a less direct line of questioning.

The court took a break after a joor, adjourning until later that orn. Optimus stood as the video techs turned off the connection, and approached Ratchet.

Ratchet had shuttered his optics, and he had his helm tipped back against the bedhead, facing the roof. His EM field was active and brittle, sharp-edged with tension. It prickled as Optimus moved into it, then surged against him, as if Ratchet had thrown himself into his arms.

Optimus sat down on the edge of the berth. “How do you feel, old friend?” he asked, softly.

“Worn out,” said Ratchet. He patted the thermosheets beside him, wordlessly inviting Optimus to join him. “I want to recharge for days.”

“After this is over, you can recharge for however long you like.” Optimus laid his hand on top of Ratchet's, gently stroking his sensitive digits. “How are your energon levels?”

“Fine,” said Ratchet. He paused, his optics cutting away to the suite door. “Although... If you don't mind, I could do with some dilute high-grade. Just to keep me awake for the rest of the day, you know.”

Optimus returned his mischievous smile. “As you wish, old friend.”

He rose, and, out of habit, asked two video techs if they would like anything from the suite chiller as well. Both looked somewhat overawed at being spoken to by the Prime; the first shook his helm mutely, but the second flashed him an opportunist's grin and asked after a popular Torus brand of flavoured mid-grade.

Optimus gathered the requested fuel, adding a somber Tyrest vintage for his own enjoyment. Returning to the berthroom, he distributed the drinks, then sat down on the berth beside Ratchet, neatly tucking his legs up beside him.

They spoke for a while, switching between speech and internal comms as the topic demanded, then lapsed into silence. The bond between them was active, feeling and sensations shuttling back and forth between them at bewildering speed.

Very little was known about how two bonded sparks communicated with one another. The current leading theory was a form of quantum entanglement, but after millennia of theocracy under which the study of sparks had been largely forbidden, evidence was thin on the ground.

However they did it, the experience of being bonded was a whirlwind stream of foreign impulses and underlying feelings which constantly bombarded the emotional processors, separate and yet part of one's own stream of consciousness. There was little making sense of it – thoughts themselves were generated in the processor, based on logical interpretation of the data supplied by the spark. Optimus couldn't know what Ratchet was thinking; just what he was feeling.

What Ratchet was feeling right now was an incessant weight of trauma, buried by a shallow layer of control and purpose. Fear circled through the bond in a cold, icy wind. Above that, though, was sunlight. For now, Ratchet was content.

Optimus shuffled a little closer, and put his arm around his mate's waist.

* * *

 

Rain fell again that evening. Uraya's prevailing wind came from the northeast, off the sub-polar Mare Chryseis. The resulting climate was temperamental and often miserable. Optimus fell into recharge with Ratchet in his arms and rain drumming a rhythmic lullaby against the berthroom louvres.

In the middle of the night, he was woken by a long-distance comm.

He got out of the hotel berth, doing his best not to disturb Ratchet, and checked the comm ID. Elita's icon flashed on his HUD.

:: _Is there a particular reason you are calling in the middle of the night?_ :: he asked, opening the line.

:: _Oh, is it?_ :: said Elita. :: _Oh yes, time zones. There is indeed, Optimus – I've found out how he media got their hands on Ratchet's documents._ ::

All residual tiredness vanished. :: _How_? ::

:: _There was an internal investigation into surgical practices at the military hospital in Altihex, shortly after you left for Centralia – lax protocol, accusations of misconduct, that sort of thing. An enormous amount of data was acquired by the Torus Medical Board's investigators, stripped of identifying data of course, and analysed in the process. In turn, this source data, and most of the analysis protocols, were acquired under the Official Information Act of Vorn 133 by a news network in Altihex when the investigation was made public. Unfortunately, it seems that some bright spark somewhere – my sources gather that they were an independent reporter with previous links to a regional publication in Pion, again owned by a subsidiary of Gilded Ice Media – somehow identified the description of the procedures Ratchet underwent immediately following his arrival at the hospital. The_ _Altihex_ _medical database may have been hacked, but we have no proof of this_ _as yet_ _._ ::

She sighed, and continued. :: _After the news of your having bonded was made official, this individual contacted several editors of news outlets owned by Gilded Ice_ _with a proposal for an article. I have several emails here – legally obtained, don't you worry – from an unfortunately anonymous account to the editor-in-chief at Northwatch News, who seems to have been less concerned about security than his interlocutor. They reach an agreement that Northwatch News would buy the publication rights to the story for one hundred thousand shanix, and that their reporters would from then take over the investigation._ ::

:: _How did they acquire the incident report?_ :: asked Optimus. He was shaking with rage again, his armour producing an even, rattling hum. He left the berthroom, turning on the main suite lights.

It was still the predawn shift; Uraya's hive city glimmered beyond the balcony windows, picked out against the dark sky in bright tower lights and neon traffic signs. The hotel suite was quiet, only the faint hum of the aid conditioner underlaying the sound of Optimus pacing back and forth across the lounge.

:: _Again, the Official Information Act_. _Northwatch News' political subsidiary, the Northern Observer, put in a seemingly innocuous request for information on recent Autobot activity against Darkmount._ _The request was conditionally granted by Autobot Intelligence, and a supervised access window arranged. Although the full incident report was encrypted and security-locked under military secrecy and medical privacy laws, a summary was noted under the regional MIA documents with Ratchet's name, number and rank redacted._ :: Elita sent Optimus a databurst containing a string of obscene glyphs. :: _W_ _ith the information that they already had, it must have been easy to put the story together._ ::

Optimus went to the balcony, and swore gently into the night air. :: _Is there anything that can be done about this?_ ::

Elita had largely taken over the political duties of the Autobot Commander-in-Chief since Optimus had left Iacon. Regretful negative icons blinked over her comm signature. :: _We're investigating the original leak, and the identity of the journalist who contacted Northwatch. As yet, we don't have grounds for an arrest or an official examination._ _Publically, we've been in damage control mode since the news broke. There is gossip and speculation all over the Datanet. There isn't a whole lot we can do about that until you or Ratchet make an official statement._ ::

:: _I don't know that I can ask that of Ratchet yet_ :: said Optimus. :: _He has been under extreme pressure for far too long. I won't put anything else on his shoulders._ ::

:: _Then ask him if he'd like you to say it for him_ :: said Elita. :: _We can't keep refusing to comment. It just breeds more and more speculation._ ::

Optimus leant his elbows on the balcony railing, looking down into the hotel courtyard below. Lights glittered around a glass-roofed thermal pool, the dark shapes of a pair of late night swimmers moving through the water.

:: _I watched the Uraya Channel One news bulletin yesterday_ :: he said. :: _The newsreaders were discussing the parentage of Ratchet's sparkling. The consensus seemed to be that_ _she_ _would be born half Decepticon._ ::

:: _Oh, Orion_ :: sighed Elita. :: _I'm so sorry._ ::

:: _Don't be_ :: he said, smiling at the use of his old name. Elita had known him long before he had become Prime. Back then, it had been so inconceivable that a Towersmech and a Tier-4 archivist could become friends that she had once passed him off as a low-caste lovetoy to her clade leader.

Now, the Towers princess was the leader of her clade in her own right, and the archivist was Prime of all Cybertron. How the world turned.

:: _I had intended to simply make her my legal heir when she was born_ :: said Optimus. :: _I do have a little of my own property that doesn't come under the Primacy's administration, and in the event of my death I would want to make sure that she and Ratchet were well-cared for._ ::

:: _Given recent events, I doubt that that would be enough_ :: Elita observed. :: _The general populace seem to think well enough of you,_ _but you will have trouble with the hereditary nobility.We put rather more stock in lineage than the rest of the planet. That's why your newscasters were so stuck on the idea of the sparkling coming out 'half Decepticon'._ ::

Optimus buried his face in his hands and thought hard. Goldmountain and Long Midnight were two of the more prominent clades which had treated the existence of the Decepticonmovement as a personal insult. Lord Dendrite, the clade leader of Goldmountain, had gone on public record opining that the abolishment of strict caste-based societal organisation went against Primus' natural order. Both clades had lost high-ranking members in the war crimes trials of the former Senate.

:: _They are trying to destabilise me, aren't they?_ :: he asked, suddenly exhausted. :: _All of this is trying to present me in the worst possible light to the most powerful political forces in the Empire. No doubt they think that I intend to raise Ratchet to the rank of Consort, and that they'll be forced to bow and scrape to a mere medic._ :: He had a sudden thought, and added bitterly, :: A _nd the carrier of a half-Decepticon child._ ::

Elita's stony silence told him that he had guessed right.

:: _I will claim her as mine_ :: Optimus told her. :: _Order a press conference._ _I won't let the speculation go any further than that._ ::

:: _Yes, my lord_ :: said Elita. He could all but hear the proud smile in her voice. :: _At once._ ::

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters to go before this fic is finished. Help me, it wants to sprout a sequel D:


End file.
